


Spirals

by ehre_wahrheit



Series: Project Bloodlines [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'tis sad, AU, Additional Warnings Apply, Agreed murder, Alpha!Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Arson, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canonical Character Death, Drug-Induced Heat, Hand Jobs, Kidnapping, Lots of Secrets, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega!Castiel, Plot-Driven, Seraph-freeform, Sickness, Spy/Agent!Cas, Spy/Agent!Dean, Strong Language, Torture, Violence, dark!characters, even more language, i've removed tags now i'm adding more, murder to one is suicide to the other, okay this story is confusing tbh, un-beta'd, unedited, wow their tongues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 62,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehre_wahrheit/pseuds/ehre_wahrheit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would you do if you were assigned on a job to rescue your youngest brother?<br/>Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak start a mission as Host and Handler both thinking they’re lost cases in different ways. They prove each other wrong.<br/>[IN THE PROCESS OF BEING EDITED]<br/>---</p><p> </p><p> <b> For announcements, updates, and other shizz on this fic, please go <a href="http://ehre-wahrheit.tumblr.com/tagged/spirals"> here </a> </b><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Before you read this, disclaimers: I do not claim to own Supernatural, or the characters. I have simply endeavored to 'borrow' for my own imagination :)  
> And, well, this may not be the first fic I've ever written, but this is the first I'm posting here. So please, if you have any thoughts for me, feel free to drop by the comments. Thanks :)  
> \--  
> Also, though there WILL be character deaths in this fic, please rest assured that this ISN'T going to be like Twist and Shout. (Meaning neither of the two main characters dies.) Um... Yeah, I think that's all for now. Enjoy!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well… there’s an assignment, specialized so it’d suit you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter has been edited. There have been some additions and revisions to the previous/original uploaded chapter (minor details)**
> 
> **[EDIT] 01/03/17** hi ya'll!!! is this ur first time reading this? if so, welcome!! if it's not, wow, welcome back!!! i would just like to say: thank you for sticking with this! it has been literal YEARS since i started writing this. this is the first fanfiction i have ever posted, and i have always loved this pairing. i still do. please do stick with me, and bare with me.
> 
> also, thank you for leaving such lovely comments!!! i would appreciate it very much if you continued to drop more ;)

Saying that Dean Winchester is surprised when his cell phone rings at 11:43 PM, showing a scrambled set of numbers and letters which mean only one thing: Seraph needs him.

In less than a week.

Is… the fucking understatement of the century.

(He has just gotten back from a job regarding an A-class drug smuggler who’d been hunted and wanted for ten years. Why couldn’t he just take a break? He’s pretty sure not everyone gets this much workload!)

He groans. He is frustrated, angry, irritated, exhausted… rubbing his hand across his face, he lets out another angry groan before walking over to the bedside table and falling face-first onto the bed.

(He feels like a baby. He reasons, _I have reasons_. It’s stupid. Let it go.)

He swipes the screen, glancing only to get it to the loudspeaker.

(Even then, he has to tap his screen twice—he doesn’t get the button on the first try. He feels stupid. And tired. And he wants to sleep.)

“What?” he says in greeting, his voice muffled against the pillow he had planted his face on. “Need me already?”

“Good evening to you, too, Winchester,” the perky voice of the secretary to Lucifer Pellegrino, Seraph Vice President, answers. “How are you doing tonight?”

“Shut _up_ , Gwen,” he grumbles, annoyed at his cousin. “What do they want?”

Gwen sighs into the phone, and Dean can only imagine her slumping forward against her desk, tired as she is most of time. No one should be that tired at her age.

(Actually, he’s pretty sure no one should be working for Lucifer Pellegrino. Guy’s the Devil incarnate. Hehehehe.)

“Gwen?” he prompts, slotting his arm underneath his body so his face isn’t squashed against the pillow, and his voice is clearer. He has never liked hearing chagrin or weariness in the voices of the people he cares for—family or not. Efficient, scary secretaries included. “What is it?”

“Well… there’s an assignment, specialized so it’d suit you.”

Dean furrows his eyebrows, half of his mind gearing up and getting excited, and the other half staying still with confusion. (And exhaustion, probably. Emphasis, because he’s just about to shut down.) “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Remember those four months you spent training with Alistair?” she says, her voice small and timid. Not like Gwen at all. “Well, this assignment needs the specialty _you_ gained after that.”

“Why can’t Alistair’s other kids do it?”

He cringes at his own question, even way before Gwen answers, because he knows, he _knows_ —

“They’re all _dead_ , Dean.”

There’s silence, broken only a second later by Gwen’s deep sigh.

_I was there._

The reminder of that time is a better wakeup call than any energy or caffeinated drink he has ever tried before.

“You have to come up tomorrow morning,” she says, “real early. You need a Handler for this assignment.” Her voice had regained its chipper, no-nonsense vibe, making his spine straighten without his permission. Or conscious decision.

Dean growls. “ _I do not need a Handler_.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger!”

He sighs, slumping back down against his pillows. “Whatever. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Dean. And… sorry. I tried talking Pellegrino and Cohen out of this, and I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, not your fault I became a fucking legend before I turned legal, Gwen. Relax. I’ll just do my job, keep my Handler safe, get back here, sleep for a week.”

“Just like always.”

Dean smiles and sighs, turning his face to look at his phone. “Good night, Gwen.” _This week’s the exception, because fucking hell, man. I need more sleep than a week._

“Good night.”

He taps his phone’s screen once, locking it, placing it back onto the bedside table. He tried to hide it, but to be perfectly honest, his cousin’s words get to him far worse than he will ever care to admit.

Those four months training with Alistair made training with John, his father, seem like child’s play even back when he was just five years old. Training with Alistair—at the arena he made himself, which everyone calls ‘The Rack’ ( _Quite accurate,_ Dean thinks, _considering that’s probably how it goes down there in Hell._ )—includes, but is not limited to ( _is this some goddamned contract, Winchester?)_ torture to self, to others; self-inflicted injury; hand-to-hand combat-to-the-grave. It was everything one might expect in a training ward, but that’s not why they were chosen to undergo Alistair’s so-called training.

Most of the rest of the Host are compassionate—they only kill by principle, their decisions and actions ruled by morals and ethics. They do their best to keep their assignments diplomatic, to stop as much death and destruction as possible—most of the Host choose espionage, reconnaissance and sabotage; the whole nine yards of what the world thinks spy and security wham-bam is.

But Alistair’s kids… they’re the other side of the coin.

John brought Dean into the world of Seraph at the age of ten—and even then he knew how to cock and shoot a gun without hesitating, throw a knife ( _though you used to suck._ ), lie in the face of authorities, and do what a con-kid usually does. He remembers being the youngest in his batch of Fledglings—most of the children Seraph took in are around thirteen or fourteen, presented and in the cusp of puberty. He’d been the runt of the litter, but by _no means_ the weakest or most useless.

His steady rise in the ranks of fledglings must have caught Alistair’s and his cronies’ attention, because by the time he _reached_ that age (puberty, presenting, blah), Alistair was already on him—taking his reports, meeting him regularly, personally training him. It almost seemed as if Dean had been reporting to Alistair _directly_ already.

It was no reason for envy, of course, but he knows how the rest of his batch of Fledglings looked at him, he _remembers_ how he’d overheard them plotting against him, because _how can a runt do so much?_

 The day he finally agreed on taking up The Rack was the day Michael Cohen was promoted president—which made him certain there was something the company was planning for him.

_Or plain coincidence._

Dean once thought being one of Alistair’s children was awesome—just like every other Fledgling would when the Rack still existed. They were legends, Alistair’s handpicked students. They were… there were battle and war stories dedicated to _them_. He had already killed three men—all of three of course who caused a big loss of funds after faking a charity event—so he wasn’t questioning Alistair’s principles.

Until his nineteenth birthday, when Alistair was sure they were ready. ‘They’ being what was left of the original group—him, a guy named Tommy, another called Jimmy, and then two girls, Ava and Meg. Originally there were twelve of them. A dozen, after six years, slimmed down to just four.

Because the others? They were either dead, or wishing they’d died in training.

Dean shakes his head, trying to shrug the memory out of his mind. But he can’t stop it—he can’t help remembering how it felt to have warm, live blood run between his fingers, soak his clothes, splash his face. See the light go out from behind their eyes. Count as the pulse on their necks, or their wrists, slowed down… slow… slow… slow… stop.

“ _Stop_ ,” he growls, squeezing his eyes shut. “Stop it.” _Please_ , he begs silently. _Please let me go._

 _Fucking Alistair_.

When Dean turned twenty one, management found Alistair’s body in his room, bled out and dead.

And no one blames anyone, because the son of a bitch deserved that.

He deserved that and things that are so much worse.

Dean sighs.

 _I guess there’s no sleep for you tonight_.

He turns over on his side, staring at his phone, the screen shining in the moonlight that streams from his bedroom window. His bed feels too big. Maybe he should have accepted Benny’s invitation to let go tonight, maybe picked up a warm body to keep him and his stupid knot… _tied up_.

He shakes his head, and asks for sleep to come.

 

 

Sleep doesn’t, and not getting a single wink of sleep the night before a big meeting and a new assignment proves to be a bad idea when Dean walks into the company building the next morning. He feels irritable and groggy, his limbs as if disconnected to the rest of his body as he moves about. First he’s greeted by Rufus Turner, the lobby guard, who forces him into going through the security protocols, even though he’s been through it _over and over and over_ for the past almost twenty years.

And then he sees Bobby Singer—who is usually tolerable, despite his rough and tough demeanor—who rats him off about losing his sleep. _Again and again, Winchester_ –his words, just quoting here.

Before he can even reach the elevator, someone grabs his shoulder, turning him roughly—and he is greeted by no one else but Ellen Harvelle, his Department’s manager, who nags him on and on about getting the report on his previous assignment done, and he promises, _yes, Ellen,_ because it doesn’t matter how long he delays that report, Ellen still loves him anyway. He gets a cuff over his head for his comments and his “snark”.

By the time he reaches Gwen’s door—which is at the fourteenth floor, two floors below the flat that Michael and Lucifer _(hehehe_ ) shares—he is pissed, sleepy, grouchy, and hungry.

“I’m here,” he says, his green eyes flashing in annoyance when Gwen doesn’t respond. She’s slumped over her desk, forehead against forearms. “Gwen,” he says again, this time pushing her head off her arms until it falls and bumps against the hardwood of her desk—

She jumps and looks up (glares)—and, yup, she hasn’t slept, either. “Jesus,” she mutters. She grabs the phone on her desk and presses it against her ears, waits for a little bit before speaking. “Winchester’s here, Sir. Uh,” she looks up, and then sees something over Dean’s shoulder, “yeah, Novak, too. Yes sir.” She hangs up, sighs, and smiles up at Dean tiredly. “Go on in.”

Dean waves, just to acknowledge her politeness, so as to not flip her off completely. And then he enters Pellegrino’s office.

It’s spacious, the vice’s office, big and bright and every bit the image of the office of a rich, powerful man. Dean can see Pellegrino, seated on his leather chair, facing away from him and instead watching the view of the city through the window behind his desk. He stares at the other Alpha for a few more seconds, taking note of the streaks of grey in his light blond hair, the laughter lines around his eyes, and he wonders just how _old_ this man is.

“You called for me,” Dean begins, and, thinking better of it, adds, “sir.” He is known to be self-destructive, yes, suicidal, at times, disrespectful, _Hell yeah_. But he doesn’t dare cross anyone who has the power to control his and his younger brother’s living conditions.

Lucifer Pellegrino rounds in on Dean, light brown eyes settling over the younger man. “Yes. Hello, Dean.”

He sighs. “Let’s get over the small talk, shall we? What’s the new assignment?”

(Okay, he takes that back. Give him a break—he hasn’t gotten any sleep, he is hungry, and it’s _eight thirty in the morning._ )

“You haven’t met your Handler yet.” There’s mirth and amusement in Pellegrino’s eyes as he says this, and it irks Dean even more over the fact that he has a _Handler_.

Handlers, just as their occupational name suggests, _Handle_ the Host or the Flight. They make sure the Host doesn’t fuck up his job, either by being too eager or being too lenient. It’s crazy—Dean has never had a Handler before, and he’s been commended _over and over_ for his job.

Dean growls. “I _don’t need_ a Handler, thank you very much.” He never has, he doesn’t see why he’d need one now.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow in an infuriatingly condescending manner, making Dean feel like a child about to be scolded. “I’ve heard rumors, Dean Winchester, and I personally know what you’re capable of.” He cuts as Dean hears the door behind him open and close. Dean and Lucifer both ignore whoever it is, continuing on with their conversation. “But this is a situation where a trained, schooled Handler is needed—first to keep you alive, and second, to keep whoever you’re taking back.”

“I can _handle_ things myself, sir.” This argument’s getting old real fast, and Dean just wants to _sleep._

“No, Dean, you really can’t. If I remember correctly, you’re one of Alistair’s prized possessions. Wouldn’t stop talking about you, before you turned tail and bit him, of course. And that’s why you need a Handler.”

“ _No. I. Don’t_.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can do this myself, thank you very much. And I am not a _dog,_ _sir_ , thanks, who’d bite his—what, _master_? after a few years of training. A Handler will just make things harder, more complicated. Generally, the more people there are on a job, the more complicated it is to keep _every single one of them alive_.” He doesn’t think of Alistair’s kids. He doesn’t think of them. _He doesn’t_. “I go do whatever this job is, and save all of us the bother.”

“That isn’t really the style of Seraph, Dean.”

Dean is about to speak, to yell at Lucifer that _really? You’re to pull that off on me, now? I didn’t even_ know _Seraph had a certain style!_  when the person behind him speaks.

“I am obviously not necessary in this assignment sir,” the person says, voice gravelly, low. Threatening. “Should I get going?”

Dean says “Yes” the same time Lucifer says “No”, forcing them to meet each other’s eyes. Challenging. Dean looks away first. _You are younger. You rank lower._

“I really don’t need a Handler, Pellegrino,” Dean sighs, scrubbing his face with his palm again.

“Oh you don’t?”

Dean turns, annoyed, glaring at the person—obviously his new Handler—who is standing with his feet apart, arms crossed over his chest. “No.” He barely resists the temptation of sticking his tongue out at the man— _tall, dark hair, blue eyes. Hot._ He dispels that thought immediately.

(But no joke. The guy’s gorgeous.)

“Care to explain to us why you don’t need a Handler, Mr. Winchester?”

“I don’t need one because I can do things _better on my own_. Besides, don’t you have more important things to do? I’m pretty sure there are other missions that need our attention.” He doesn’t hide the fact that he glances at the Handler behind him. He hates company regulations about scent—he hates not being able to gauge what someone is. Guy can’t be an Alpha, pretty sure—Alphas make the _worst_ Handlers, ever. Too hard and hot headed. Would be useless in a job.

It would be nice to know in a sniff, of course.

“Well, I’m sorry, but if you think I’m going to slow you down—because yes, I can see that you can do everything on your own—then you are mistaken. I am fully capable of being a Handler and I assure you that I will do what I need to do.” There’s a challenge in the man’s tone—not an Alpha, but sure had an Alpha’s upbringing. Father? Mentor?

“I still don’t need you.”

“I don’t care. This is our assignment now, Host. Now stop arguing.”

“I’m not arguing.” Dean looks at Lucifer once more, who seems to look amused at the turn of events. “I will punch you in the guts for this, you stupid asshole.”

Lucifer’s smile turns into a full-on grin as he returns Dean’s glare. “I’ll be waiting. For the meantime—Dean, this is Castiel Novak, your new Handler.”

Dean turns around, appraising his new Handler. Castiel is tall—almost as tall as he—with a mop of dark hair and a pair of electrifying blue eyes. Dean stares at Castiel, long and hard, before shrugging. He tries to make the motion as smooth and nonchalant as he can, but judging from the amused twitch of Castiel’s mouth, he fails.

“Whatever.”

“Your lack of consideration to others shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but it somehow does,” Castiel states, as if he’s talking about the weather as he looks back at Dean. His voice is stoic and cold, the same tone Dean had tried over and over to imitate in daily conversations but had found he couldn’t. “I understand that genes and pheromones tell you that you are above the rest of us, but I sincerely hope you do not believe that. I had, at least. Perhaps I was wrong.” He tilts his head, in a posture that Dean fights himself not to call _cute_. “Right now you’re proving me wrong.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

Castiel smirks. “Oh _please_. The desire to dominate is rolling off of you in _waves_ , Alpha Winchester. Don’t downplay your true self by playing innocent.”

Dean has had enough. He turns to Lucifer, scowls, faces Castiel, scowls again, and promptly walks out the door. He doesn’t have the time or patience for assholes today—if they don’t want to get punched _get the fuck out of my way_.

(Honestly, being called a stereotypical Alpha… it stings. He tries his best to be level with everyone. Today is just not a good day. No sleep, remember? No food, either.)

Before the door closes behind him, he hears Lucifer say the instructions he originally came here to collect: “Michael’s office, eleven AM sharp. We need to get you ready.”

He sighs, patting Gwen’s head as he passes, before taking the elevator. It’s barely nine—maybe he can grab a few things before heading off to face Michael.

 

 

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Dean grouches; face red with exertion as he continues with his daily exercise. “I can’t believe I was forced into this whole fucking thing.” Maybe he shouldn’t be exercising, but he’s too pissed, too tense to be able to rest at this point. He doesn’t even try.

“Will you please mind your language?” Jo, Ellen’s daughter, and one of Dean’s few close friends ( _the ones still alive)_ , admonishes as she watches Dean. “And what the hell? This is the first time I’ve heard you complain this much about an assignment.”

“Oh, that’s not all,” Benny, another of one his friends, answers. He’s lounging against one of the equipments around Dean, smirking slightly, hand around a water bottle. “Pellegrino’s gotten him a Handler.”

Dean growls in response—in frustration and anger, too, maybe—as he lifts again.

Jo watches Dean intently before answering. “What’s so wrong about having a frigging Handler?” she asks. “There’s nothing wrong with them, they’re cool.”

“I don’t need one, okay?” Dean says. “I can do shit on my own without anyone watching everything I do.” He grunts with exertion as he does his reps again, enjoying the sweat and the tensing of his muscles as he does his exercise. Contrary to what Sammy believes, he _tries_. He contradicts his overeating with overexerting.

(Which is bad, lovelies, don’t ever do it. Exercise at your own pace.)

“This isn’t really about you having a Handler, it’s about who the Handler you’re having _is_.” Sam’s tone is teasing, but there’s also suspicion and exasperation. Dean has never wanted to punch anyone as badly as he wants to punch _Sam_ at the moment.

Dean stops his movements momentarily to glare long and hard at his younger brother, who shrugs in answer, chugging at his own water bottle. There are rivulets of sweat running down his neck and arms, which he quickly wipes away with a towel that Jo hands him.

“It’s true. So, who is it?” he continues to ask, staring at Dean when he remains quiet.

“Castiel fucking Novak,” Dean finally spits. He might as well let them know—everybody knows who Castiel Novak is. He has rumors surrounding him—from his shady past ( _like Hell, who the fuck in this place doesn’t have a shady past?)_ to his attitude. He doesn’t take bullshit from anyone, and Dean may or may not have just suffered the brunt of the truth of that particular rumor.

Jo laughs. She sounds genuinely amused, and Dean turns his curious (angry!) eyes to her.

“What’s so funny?” he says. He tries to sound annoyed. He fails, again.

“It’s… They’re pairing you off with Castiel Novak, Dean,” she answers, as if that’s the answer to all his questions. She’s still laughing. He rolls his eyes, and she relents by continuing. “He’s the best Handler there is, even back when he was in training. There’s just one reason they’re pairing him up with you—the best Host there is.”

Dean rolls his eyes again, this time continuing with his exercise.

Jo’s tone and expression turns somber so quickly it’s _Dean_ who gets whiplash. “He’s on the Spiral now.”

 

**..--..**

 

Castiel Novak is, to say the least, uncomfortable with the idea of Handling an Alpha.

He’s handled Alphas before, of course—he can’t really remember when the last time was that his Host—or Flight, in the few missions he’d been assigned to the Flight— _wasn’t_ an Alpha. But he has never encountered any that had the same effect on him as Dean Winchester.

The man was fucking annoying. (No joke. It doesn’t matter that he’s gorgeous. Castiel might end up choking him in his sleep before they even start their stupid mission.)

He’s done his research, when Gwen called him last night to tell him about being assigned to Dean. He read through Dean’s files, stocking in on his manners and strategies, trying to create a picture of Dean based on the facts he can infer from the many reports.

Everything about Dean Winchester is a big wham of a surprise.

He was welcomed into Seraph at the age of ten, by his father—John Winchester, one of the best Hosts during his time, who else?—and he topped all his classes quickly and swiftly, effectively becoming one of Seraph’s most dangerous tools. He was assigned to six different jobs in the six years before his advancement training, and he succeeded in all—successfully eradicating not only the fruit but the roots of the problem.

And then he was taken in by Alistair, Seraph’s Assassination expert. The six years he spent under Alistair was sketchy at best, but it was obvious that something in Dean changed in that time. When Alistair died a year after Dean left his arena, Dean rose to be the star player in all of Seraph’s operations—be it reconnaissance, full-on battle, or simple espionage. He was just that good.

He has a brother, one Sam Winchester, who is in the Information Department mainly due to his fragile health. When Castiel read that, he felt a pang of sympathy—he understands how it is, to be sick, to know you’re closer to death than normal people, to feel like you should still be doing something even when you’re so fragile you’re almost _worthless_.

Now that he’s met the man himself, he’s confused.  A part of his brain is telling him that Dean is a pretentious asshole who walks on everything lower than him—including Castiel—but another part is telling him that everything the records account of Dean is either wrong or just highly inaccurate.

Dean seems simple enough. When Castiel first scented him, outside of Lucifer Pellegrino’s office, he knew something about Dean was different, that he wasn’t like everyone Castiel knew. Dean’s scent is downplayed, of course—all of theirs are—and Castiel will only be able to take a real whiff once they’re out on the job but…

But still, something tells him Dean can help.

His fingers brush over his sleeve, which is covering that simple pattern on his wrist. It’s still a faint, white line, for now, because it only started three weeks ago. He was told about this—about his body going into desperate measures to find a mate, to find what’s _safe_ , that is begins destroying itself in the process.

It’s like cancer, except it isn’t. Castiel looks aesthetically normal, except for that pattern on his wrist. But deep inside, his body is rebelling against him—shifting, changing, bruising and bleeding to tell him that _you need a fucking mate, right now_. _Or you’re going to die._

No one but his superiors and close friends know about his Gender Designation. After all, Omegas rarely get his type of job. They usually stay low-level, usually as clerks or as decoys. But Castiel persevered and entered Handling training, going against all stigma and keeping his chin up against the cat calls at the academy—and he’s the best there is now. He laughs at those low lives who’d called him a _bitch_ , when he was younger, when he’d just entered Seraph. Because look who’s on top of the pyramid _now_.

Except, now? That doesn’t really mean anything. It means nothing at all, because his body is searching for one of those… those _low lives_ to keep him alive, because he’s dying. He’s dying, and though he accepts that, he doesn’t accept that it can’t be on his terms. He has fought the system that oppresses all lower sexes and _here comes biology_ , fucking it all up. He still needs a magical healing fucking _knot_ to stay alive, no matter how much he’d hated that he’d been looked down upon by people born naturally with _knots_.

Fuck it, fuck it all.

He sits down, his eyes trained on the window, trying to rid his head of the million thoughts running through his mind. He jumps when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he picks up—smiling when he sees Gabriel calling.

“Hello, Gabriel,” he says into the phone immediately, relieved that at _least_ , he has something familiar to hold on to, right now.

“Hello, little brother! How are you doing?” He smiles. Gabriel sounds as cheery and boisterous as usual, brightening his quickly dimming day.

“I’m doing just fine, thank you. I’m waiting for the time to receive my instructions. Yourself?”

“Oh wow, a new assignment? Already? Are you sure you’re going to be okay? The doctors said you need to rest, Cassie. Maybe you should, you know, cut yourself some slack.”

Castiel sighs—both at his nickname and at his brother’s concern. He loves his brother, he does, but sometimes he can become an overbearing Alpha and he _hates it._ “I’ll be okay, Gabriel, don’t worry.”

“So who’s the Host?” Gabriel’s tone is slow, careful, measured. Treading. He knows.

“Dean Winchester.” _Why ask?_

Gabriel is silent, making Castiel uncomfortable. Rule number one with Gabriel Novak is that _he is never quiet_. Maybe he’d premeditated this call, but maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe, maybe. His life here had never been so full as maybe’s as it is now. There was always certainty. And now… there’s none. He still hates it, the feeling of not being sure what’s going to happen, of having no knowledge, no possible plan for any circumstance. He _loathes_ it, feeling helpless. Hapless.

“Gabriel?”

“Are you _sure_ you’ll be okay, Cassie?”

“Yes. What’s with Dean?” He has to ask, because he doesn’t like Gabriel’s tone. He doesn’t like the uncertainty, the hesitance in his older brother’s tone—his older brother, who is more laid back and most, who is rarely as stiff as he sounds now, over the phone. He doesn’t like it.

“Nothing.”

“You aren’t a good liar, Gabriel. You’re honest. Be honest with me now.”

“Dean-o is… well, he’s quite the character, to say so lightly. Dark past, secret identity, unknown origins, the whole nine yards. And Dean is… he’s special, too, in a way. Just. Just be careful, alright? You hear me?”

“Yes, Gabriel, I hear you. I still don’t understand, though—why were you so reluctant to tell me about this? He’s the same as all of us.”

Castiel frowns at the breathy laugh that comes from his brother. “That’s where you’re wrong, Cassie. Just remember to be careful, _whatever you do_. Got it?”

“Gabe—”

Castiel takes a deep, cleansing breath when the line goes dead. He pulls his phone away, staring at it as if it will yield all the answers to the questions his mind is spewing. And then he puts it down, stands, and moves to his room to pack.

He has an assignment, after all—all he needs to do is to keep in mind that he needs to be careful.

 _And that this Host is different_.

 

**..--..**

 

The meeting ends an hour after lunch break, which has Dean grouching because he’s hungry, he’s angry, and he’s tired. He’s barely had an hour of sleep last night—none at all, really—and eating breakfast with _Sam_ telling him all the benefits of rabbit food kinda put him off his appetite. Which he should be used to right now, but still isn’t.

And then he was reminded of his Handler again—when they meet in Michael’s office.

“Good, it looks like you won’t be jumping each other’s throats yet,” Michael says, appraising the scowling Alpha before settling on looking at the stoic Handler. “Now I think we can get down to business.”

He sits down, gesturing vaguely at Dean and Castiel to do the same, picking up the white folder on his desk. He opens it and eyes the contents, handing the first page to Dean and the rest of the folder to Castiel.

Dean pales considerably when he sees the file, which both his companions easily picked up on. They stare at him with raised eyebrows, and he looks up to them, his eyes filled with a mix of incredulity, concern, and, he hopes not, fear. If they—Pellegrino, Cohen, probably Gwen, if she had anything to do with assigning him—know who it is, then he’s pretty sure assigning him a Handler had been a good call.

It’s the best damn call there is.

“Dean?” Michael prods, pointing at the piece of paper in the man’s hand.

“Uh,” Dean says intelligently, his eyes snapping back to the picture pasted on the corner of the paper. The kid has blond hair and blue eyes, a high nose, and pink lips—pulled up to a smile that Dean knows wasn’t from a joke, but from a small thought at the back of his head. “Adam Milligan,” he begins, shifting uncomfortably.

“I am aware of that. But why do you seem like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“Do you really take your kids’ feelings into consideration, Dad?” Dean asks sarcastically, rolling his eyes at Michael. He hands the piece of paper to Castiel before standing. “When do we leave?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t have to, do I? It’s not like I can _back out_ of this one.”

Michael’s answering smile has Dean wishing he had answered the stupid question. “Or we can always ask little Sammy, right? I’m sure Lucifer will have a field day with that boy.”

“Michael,” Dean warns.

“I’m sure Dean will tell you if he has to,” Castiel says quietly, standing and walking to stand between the two men. He turns his back on Dean—which just awes Dean, _He trusts me enough_? And then his next thought: _finally! Doing your job!_ —and faces Michael. “But I think we need the details as to the rest of the mission.”

Michael glowers at Castiel for a good three minutes before he, too, stands—causing Castiel to tense—and walks towards the conference room adjacent to his office. Both Castiel and Dean sigh in relief once he’s left.

“Uh,” Dean says uncomfortably as Castiel turns to face him.

“You like that word,” Castiel answers, smiling faintly.

Dean sobers up and shakes his head. “Uh, no—I. Yeah. I like the word. Anyway, thanks for that.”

Castiel sighs, looking at the door Michael had just disappeared to. “That’s fine. That’s gonna be my job, anyway.”

Before he walks away, Dean catches his wrist, making the shorter man twist around to face him. He smiles a little. “And sorry, about this morning. Maybe you’re right—I _do_ need someone.”

Castiel’s eyes are wide on Dean’s hand around his wrist, but he nods almost absently.  Dean drops his hand before he lets go, and Castiel sighs.

“Maybe,” he mutters, before following Michael into the conference room.

And, if Dean thought he has a nice ass, then that’s Dean and no one has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Tumblr ](http://ehre-wahrheit.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean frowns, both at his brother’s behavior and at the question. But this is something that’s been instilled in him since pledging as a Host."Because we are the hosts,” he recites dully, still unsure where this is going. “We uphold the well-being of our Handlers and our cases, in our actions, our decisions, and our general behavior.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter has not been edited. Editing is ongoing.**
> 
> ^Lol I sound like a robot

 

Dean sits on his favorite sofa, contemplative, staring at the blank screen of his television set. He’s thought of turning it on, but every time he reaches for the remote control, he remembers that there isn’t a single show he’d like to see, so he just lets his hand drop, sigh, and straighten up again. And then he starts thinking of turning the TV on again, if just to add some background noise in his apartment.

Sam finds him like that at seven in the evening, when he isn’t answering his phone.

“Dean?” Sam says worriedly, waving a hand in front of his brother’s face. “Dude, wake up. Are you sober?”

“I’m sober, Sam,” Dean mutters. “Something about this day just grates on me.”

Sam sighs, sitting beside Dean and staring at the side of his face. “Is this because of your Handler? It’s just one mission, Dean, you probably won’t need to see each other ever after.”

“No, but there’s something about this mission, too.”

Sam raises his eyebrow in question when Dean doesn’t elaborate.

Defeated, Dean turns to look at his brother, his own brows furrowed in concern and… fear? Yeah, Dean’s sure he feels fear. “It’s funny. You know how you’re asked to run background checks on whoever it is we’re taking out or taking in?” At Sam’s nodding answer, Dean continues, albeit reluctantly. “Cohen obviously didn’t run anything on this guy.”

“You’re the Host, Dean, you’re not allowed to look beyond the profile of the person.”

“And I looked, Sam. Trust me, there wasn’t any background checks on this one. If there was, I’m sure Michael wouldn’t have asked why I looked like I saw a ghost when I saw my _little brother’s_ file.”

Sam stared at him for a good two seconds in shock before inhaling sharply at the realization. “I thought Dad promised Adam will be okay!”

“Well, Dad lied, ‘cause I’m going on a search and rescue operation with a _Handler_ because I may just have to apply something special I’ve learned from a certain son of a bitch.”

“Dean. Will you be okay?”

Dean sits in contemplative silence before he turns and looks at his brother’s hazel eyes. He looks pale—almost as if he hasn’t slept in a good few days. And now this news will surely keep Sam awake for longer. “Don’t worry about me, Sammy. I’ll be fine. Adam, on the other hand…”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees breathily, his voice faint from concern and fear and that paralyzing terror you feel whenever you hear about one of your close relatives getting in trouble—getting sick, getting hurt. “Yeah, I’ll worry about Adam, too.”

Dean smiles at his younger brother, and invites him to stay for pizza. After all, this might be the last they see each other in a while—a while being a time ranging from a few weeks to a few months. Sam does stay, and they order one pizza each—a meat lover’s delight order for Dean, and of course, something vegan for his sickly brother.

Wasting time with his younger brother like this is reminiscent of many times during their childhood—back when Dean wasn’t as hounded by his actions and life as he is now, back when all he needed to think about was Sam and what to do for the rest of the night. The thought of Adam never leaves his mind. It dominates most of his thoughts, but he is thankful for his ability to compartmentalize, because he knows that going by this emotionally will surely endanger him and his Handler—and even Adam—in this mission.

He frowns when his mind brings up the thought of a Handler, and he looks at his brother again—he’s the smart one, the one who went to a real, formal school. Sammy’s probably the only one who will answer his questions… whatever they were.

Because something about something Jo had said earlier this morning kept scratching at the back of his mind. He knows it might have been something he learned, when he was still in whatever kind of school Seraph puts its Alphas through, but for the life of him he can’t remember.

"Hey, Sammy," he begins, and then he scratches the back of his neck, unsure of how to continue. "Uh..."

Sam smirks. "The great Dean Winchester at a loss for words?"

"Shut up, Samantha. As I was about to say," he adds a glare to his brother, "what on earth is the Spiral?"

The question completely wipes Sam's humor off his face—whatever trace of humor one may be able to gather after learning your brother has to rescue your youngest brother—and he shifts, unconsciously facing the exit of Dean's living room.

"Sammy," Dean warns, moving, too, this time like a predator looking for a way to keep his prey from escaping. He’s done this before—moved and made decision based solely on the body language of whoever he’s talking to, whoever he’s trying to coercing information from. But he never would have expected he’d ever apply such knowledge on his brother.

Sam sighs, cards his fingers through his long hair, before he meets Dean's eyes. “This is about what Jo said, isn’t it? You’re curious what your Handler’s on about?”

Dean isn’t really sure himself if that’s what this is about, but he nods anyway, because if admitting something he isn’t sure about means finding something potentially important… well, he’s sacrificed more of himself in other ways.

“I don’t know how Jo knows whatever it is she knows, but… Okay, let’s start with one piece of information that will really help prepare you. Your Handler is an Omega, Dean.”

At this his eyes harden, trying to convey a message Dean has always kept to heart since childhood. Sam, being a Beta--didn't really matter that he was Dominant, he still was a Beta--had the same instincts as other Betas, Thetas and Omegas out there.

Of course they’re all protective of one another—if they weren’t, who’d protect them? Dean knows enough about history to know how the lower genders were treated, how Alphas and the Dominant Betas and Thetas of the world used to treat anyone that wasn’t like them.

Dean nods, acknowledging his brother’s concern—and pushing aside the hurt that his brother doesn’t even trust him enough to _not_ treat his Handler right, Omega or not.

"Do you know why you're called Hosts?" Sam asks, his eyes focused on Dean.

Dean frowns, both at his brother’s behavior and at the question. But this is something that’s been instilled in him since pledging as a Host."Because we are the hosts,” he recites dully, still unsure where this is going. “We uphold the well-being of our Handlers and our cases, in our actions, our decisions, and our general behavior.”

Sam chuckles humorlessly--to Dean, it almost sounds dark. And it grates on him because that’s a sound that doesn’t fit his younger brother. "That's the version they give you. So coated in sugar that it makes the rest of us sick whenever we hear of it. That isn't just it, Dean. You're literal hosts, yes, but not in that way. In the other sense of the word."

Dean’s frown deepens in the silence that Sam leaves for him to think, for him to mull in his head whatever it is he means. Host. He envisions opening a dictionary, going over the entries—reading the definitions for the word until he gets to what he’s looking for.

And, when it makes a loud, light bulb-above-your-head ‘ping!’ in his mind, he blanches at the implication. Sam’s answering smile is sickening.

"But... how?" Dean asks, his voice thick with the suppressed urge to run to the toilet and barf.

"Of course you don't know. Alphas never do. Have you ever seen a Handler that's under you gender, Dean? Or a member of the Host that isn't?"

Dean looks away to think. He isn’t sure if he’d be able, but surprisingly, he actually does.

 Before Bobby and Rufus retired from the Host to up to management... well, doesn't matter, they're Alphas. Sam isn't Host, neither is Jo, and Ellen never has been. Benny, Andy, Meg (when she was alive), Jake, Leera... Dean shakes his head, to clear himself of thoughts and to answer his question. "No, I don't think so. And Seraph is big, Sam. You aren't answering my question yet, either. What's with taking your frustrations out on me?"

Sam sighs, and he looks torn for a moment--and then he seems to decide on something. "Yeah, you're right, _sorry_."

Dean furrows his brows, frowning deeper at his brother’s harsh sarcasm. Sam gets _angry_ , yes, with little things like his favorite book’s plot not going over well with the movie, or Dean losing a whole week’s worth of sleep for reports or do-overs… neither of which is applicable in this situation, so he can’t explain properly why he’s mad.

"The reason is simple. It's just that whatever your gender designation, an Alpha is still your best bet as a mate. Everyone develops a condition where their bodies destroy themselves in a plea for a mate, except for Alphas, because they don’t need a mate. Mates need you. You're hosts to them, they're parasites to you. I’m not going to give you illusions, Dean, I’ll just give you the real image: they feed off of you.

“Your attention, your scent--the simple false security of having a mate keeps their bodies from rebelling and killing them. And it's called the Spiral because of a mark on their wrists, marks that darken the longer they're mateless until, when it's black like ink to a tattoo, they just die."

Again, Dean finds himself fumbling at the injustice of it all. He’s been doing it all his life—asking why him, why his brother, why his _life_ —but this… this takes the cake. Whatever other horrors that entails. "But if they Handle Hosts regularly, won't that help?" he asks, looking at his brother.

"Yes and no. Yeah, keeps it down, but if they're off on their own it gets worse. And the thing is, they're never sure if they'll be assigned to Hosts all the time. Sometimes they get assigned to the Flight, too. Flyers are all mated. You can't ask to be in the Flight if you're unmated."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. At least that explains the douchebaggery at is Castiel Novak--he's sure that if he is the one in the Handler's position, then he'd be just as bad. Well, knowing Dean, he’d probably much, much worse.

"And if you're going to ask, Omegas start with the Spiral at the age of twenty three." He shakes his head. "The choice between a sure death and a mate is one hell of a way to welcome your adulthood, huh?"

Dean looks at his brother, but Sam is looking ahead of him, at the rest of the dark room.

"Just... just be careful, alright, Dean? And bring Adam home."

 

**..--..**

Castiel shifts. Not for the first time, he feels out of sorts in his own skin—all nerves and jitters like he can’t quite keep his handle on reality. He closes his eyes, opens his mind to the music being blasted in his ear through his earphones.

He’s almost able to ignore the— _note_ : _worse_ —ball of energy moving beside him. _Almost_. He sighs, takes off his earphones, and glares at Dean Winchester.

“What?” Dean asks, almost like a whine. Castiel thinks he sounds like a child.

“Will you _please_ tone it down?” Castiel snaps back, his mind rebelling against his own decisions, because first off, this is an _Alpha_ , and second, _he’s an Alpha in distress_.

“We’re in a metal tube of death, Cas, how can you expect me to calm down?” Dean answers, his fingers tapping incessantly against the plastic arm rest, and his scent still tinged with the bitterness of fear. “I can’t calm down. Holy shit. It doesn’t matter how many times they make me do this, it’s still a fucking death trap. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Dean,” Castiel sighs, rubbing his forehead. They’ve only been on air for _an hour_. They have five more hours to go. He looks over his Host’s shoulder, towards the pair on the other side of the lane, and they look… well, wholly sympathetic.

Aircraft air-conditioning is a blessing—breathing in one distressed scent is almost too much for Castiel. He wonders how it’d be if he has to breathe the same air as two hundred others when most of them, like Dean, have flying issues.

 “Cas,” Dean answers right back, green eyes wide and still looking, for an Alpha, like a pup. The thought brings a smile to Castiel’s face, and, without really thinking—because thinking in this state is highly dangerous—he grabs the back of Dean’s neck and drags his face against his own neck.

Keeping Dean in the right headspace is his job, he knows that. And Handlers need to go through whatever lengths in order to achieve that. Having Dean sucking his scent in like a drowning man breaking the surface of water is a means to an end, but his mind—and that traitorous voice everyone seems to have—supplies him with a sense of calm and _safe, home, yes_ that he ends up closing his eyes.

Soon enough Dean’s breathing slows, his scent growing calmer and calmer until it’s the same that Castiel has been exposed to yesterday—old leather, whisky, a meadow after a soft drizzle. It’s a strange combination, but to Castiel it just seems fitting of Dean, of his personality.

Castiel closes his eyes and dozes off, unaware of the soft smile gracing his lips as Dean unconsciously nuzzles his nose against the pulse of his throat.

Dean stays calm for the rest of the flight—if you can call an Alpha shoving his nose down your collar calm. He only starts getting agitated again when the plane nosedives for landing, his breathing becoming erratic as he drinks in Castiel’s scent one deep inhale at a time.

The Alpha slowly extracts himself from Castiel’s personal space only a few seconds after he is sure the plane is really still, moving sluggishly out of seat, down the aisle, and out of the plane.

 

He hasn’t said a word. Not one uttered as he stood close by Castiel at the line for their luggage; not even as they walked to the parking lot towards their rental car.

Castiel hands the keys he’d been given earlier at the headquarters to Dean, who takes it from him with mechanical limbs. Even his face is held in careful blandness.

 _Maybe that was a bad idea,_ he thinks, remembering that some Alphas find it highly degrading to depend on an Omega… for anything, really. He climbs into their car—a nondescript silver Toyota Vios, second hand, paint a little scratched—and shakes his head. It’s his job to make sure Dean is and stays in the right headspace for this job.

It’s the reason he’s here.

And if that means Dean reacting differently to his means as a person then so be it—what matters is they get something done properly and appropriately.

 _Not that what you did is even considered_ appropriate _._

He sighs, and finally decides on saying something.

“Dean,” he says, at the exact same time the Alpha behind the wheel says “I’m sorry”. They’re now on their way to their rental house—because they _will_ be staying awhile—and the tension is too much. This isn’t how Castiel sees his job in the near indefinite future done.

And it’s too much for the both of them.

Dean chuckles, albeit darkly, and gestures at Castiel with the hand he took off the gearshift.

“You first,” he says, not looking away from the road as the lady-voice from the GPS guides him through the unfamiliar city.

“Look,” Castiel begins, nervously twiddling his thumbs. He had hoped it wouldn’t be obvious, but years of handling the Host have not quite prepared him for one like Dean Winchester. The Alpha’s scent changed, too, reacting to the changes in the Omega’s.

Castiel forces himself to relax and settle, though he now realizes that he, too, needs help to get into the right headspace. No wonder Handlers are forced to train under highly traumatic and caustic situations. This is hard.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t quite going how I planned it to go,” Castiel tries again, but even to himself he sounds wry—his off-the-handle jab at humor as dry as it always has been for him.  He sighs instead, deciding to look out the window.

Dean’s obvious attempts to tamp down his own scent take a little longer than Castiel. _He’s obviously out of practice_ , his mind provides helpfully. _Or maybe he’s figured out that you’re not going to speak any time soon._

“Look, Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean says, and Castiel feels a childish pang if bitter envy at the Alpha’s handle of thought and speech. “Hey, don’t be like that, now,” he chides, his tone reassuring, and probably a little condescending, too, if Castiel can just let his pride down a little and check.

“Sorry,” he says instead, though he doesn’t feel it at all. It’s unfair how these things happen, how he’s always the awkward one. He gestures for his company to continue talking.

“I’m probably an asshole to you without trying,” Dean continues, and Castiel can practically hear him roll his eyes, “so I’m not going to try to fix that or anything. I’m not going to say this to change my image from shit, but you’ve just gotta know, alright? You’re my Handler, I’m supposed to be some good guy or whatnot. And really, it’s just mainly because I’ve never had a Handler before.”

( _Yeah, I know, I’ve heard,_ Castiel thinks. _The point?_ )

“And now you know I get scared shitless of airplanes. The only people who I know on a personal level who’s ever been on one with me are my brother and my dad. So… so what you did, that whole scenting thing? It just came as a shock, that’s all. Doesn’t mean it didn’t help.”

Castiel looks at Dean in surprise—he never expected to get his treatment. Others have treated him as humanely as possible, but he’s never really been treated as a _person_ enough to be expressed gratitude towards.

“Or I didn’t like it,” Dean says again, like an afterthought, which only serves to surprise the Omega even more. Dean looks at him and smiles a little sheepishly. “Yeah, sorry.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I was about to swear off doing anything you didn’t ask me to,” he admits, eyes still trained on the Alpha. He looks at Dean—at the legend he’s heard so much about, as the person he’s identified at the first meeting as an asshole. He never expected the same person to treat him like he’s something worthwhile.

“But hey, isn’t that your job?” Dean answers, taking the turn the voice off the dashboard tells him to into their new neighborhood.

Castiel chuckles, feeling actual gratitude that the tension has been staved off. His smile widens, realizing it’s all thanks to one Dean Winchester.

 

The neighborhood Seraph chose for them isn’t as nice as it could have been, though by what Dean and Castiel has experienced both, moving into a rough-and-tumble kind of neighborhood with a knowledge of self-defense and a knack for the antisocial isn’t as suspicious as it would be if they moved into the nicer part of town.

Especially when they’re about to do some power-wracking from underneath said town.

Castiel gets out of the car only after Dean reaches the sidewalk near him, unconsciously moving closer to the Alpha for warmth and safety as they walk up the short walkway right through their front-yard-for-the-time-being to the front door.

“Got the keys?” Dean asks softly, shifting sideways so Castiel can enter the house first. Cas smiles gratefully, quickly fishing the keys out of his pocket and working the front door open to get inside as soon as possible.

He’s been trained, of course, he knows how to handle himself and another person if need be, but damn fucking biology and anatomy and whatnot for his bodily reactions to danger and fear and basically being the whiny little Omega he probably looks to Dean anyway.

“Let’s take a look around before moving our crap in, yeah?” Dean says, already walking ahead of Castiel down the hallway, peering into the two doors to his left and his right before disappearing into the living room the hallway ends at. “What?” he calls at Castiel’s answering chuckle.

“Just, for a grown man you have a vocabulary to be desired,” Castiel answers, peering into the rooms as well—one that looks like a library, and then the dining room. The living room looks nice, at least, not as rough as he thought it’d be. The paints are good, too—a careful but still somehow carefree shade of cream, with highlights of brown, and _there goes your fucking Omega mind nesting on a house that isn’t fucking yours_.

Castiel focuses on reality as he walks into the living room, watching Dean enter the kitchen off to the side. “Hey, it gets me where I gotta be. Oh cool, second floor, Cas!”

“Enjoy sweetie!” Castiel calls, rolling his eyes as he walks into the kitchen. He’s surprised—the whole place seems furnished and clean and doesn’t seem to have much of problems.

So far, he’s seen Dean angry, uncomfortable, scared, awkward, and now, childish. He has yet to see the cold legend that has rumors flying around the whole company about. At that Castiel frowns, still unsure of his own stand regarding that particular face.

He walks into the dining room—the same room he glanced at earlier from the front hallway, which is nice, it has two exits, two possible escape routes when it comes to it—just as Dean is walking down the stairs pushed to the far wall. He looks… embarrassed.

“One bedroom,” Dean lays down quick, and Castiel gets his embarrassment quite quickly. And then Dean shrugs. “Nah, doesn’t matter. The couch looks comfortable.”

“Dean—”

“If that’s anything but an agreeing thought then you better just follow out and bring our shit in.” Castiel stares at Dean’s gold-and-green eyes for a long while before sighing, rolling his eyes and following Dean’s order to just go _bring their shit in_.

“So, how’s the house?” Castiel decides to ask—it’s relatively safe, right?—as he accepts his backpack and Dean’s duffel from the car. He’s to live here, no harm in asking how it is.

“Looks pretty promising,” Dean answers, grunting as he hefts a heavy-looking crate that Seraph probably left in the car when they rented it. _No way_ something like that could’ve gotten in through airport security. “No funny sounds between the walls and pipes. I guess besides the lack of perishables, place is good.”

Castiel frowns but shrugs—what does he know about this crap?—and turns to enter the house, deciding to bring both bags he’s holding up to the bedroom. Which is spacious. Like, almost half of the house itself kind of spacious. And it has a freaking couch—damn it, Dean.

He goes back downstairs, ducking into the dining room to let Dean pass with the large crate to get whatever else is left in the car. It takes a total of three trips between the both of them, the third being another argument/discussion about bedspace.

“There’s a perfectly functioning, usable couch _upstairs_ , Dean,” Castiel argues. If there’s anything, it’s his persistence he’s most proud of—landed him into being a Handler, not a clerk or a damned driver.

Dean sighs, running his hand through his short light-brown hair, and Castiel sees his victory in the Alpha’s heterochromatic eyes. He knows he has a point—having the both of them and all their mobile weapons in one part of the house will them safest during their more vulnerable hours, and it will also help stave off accidental discovery in case they ever have civilian guests.

“Alright, fine,” Dean says, and Castiel sighs in relief. _Finally_. He stuffs a pistol into a couch cushion, dropping it unceremoniously and sitting on it to test whether or not it’s obvious there’s something dangerous pushing against his ass. “Just don’t complain about snoring.”

Castiel looks about 110% done at that moment, staring at Dean as he lounges on the floor, dropping a knife into the porcelain vase they put on the coffee table. He’s had people who did _worse than snore_ at night sleeping in close quarters with him. But he just kept quiet, watching as Dean inserted the plastic flowers back and letting it settle on the table.

That’s all they did for the rest of the afternoon—hiding weapons into easily accessible but easily discarded places, jabbing at each other in humor every now and then. Castiel is surprised by how easily he has fallen into step with Dean—he had expected some awkwardness, at least, especially judging by how they acted towards one another the first time they met.

Instead here he is, laughing as he lounges back on the couch, watching Dean put back together the television set he’s dismantled to insert another gun and some bullets.

“And we’re done,” Dean exclaims triumphantly, dropping the TV on its stand and stretching his arms over his head. Castiel ignores how his eyes are drawn to the strip of tan skin that shows as Dean’s shirt rides up.

“How about some celebratory dinner? We can go for groceries right after,” he says, standing up to stretch himself.

“Does pizza sound good?” Dean asks.

“Pizza sounds perfect.”

“Then let’s get rolling!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Tumblr ](http://theorynpractice.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thought in his mind is, _I wonder how it feels to hear that from someone I could call my mate_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first few (kinda weird to be honest) parts of this chapter is dedicated to my cousin-slash-playmate-slash-friend, Daki (or Dax) who just got married on Saturday. You go, bro :)
> 
> PS. THANKS FOR YOUR COMMENTS AND YOUR KUDOS AND YOUR LOVE ASKJDHKEAHKJSHDEHK GUYS YOU R MY LYF
> 
> **This chapter is being edited at the moment :)**

Dean finds himself constantly getting surprised the longer he spends with his Handler. He’d expected animosity at the best, coming from someone who had hated his guts the first time they met. Instead he had someone who he’s actually investing on, someone he listens to properly and not out of complete courtesy.

Someone who makes him feel at least a little better about his job.

The little stint on the airplane turned out to be something he needed—he just never knew until he was force-fed with it. He’s never truly experienced receiving that kind of attention, and getting it from someone like Cas is… it’s something comfortable.

Dean practically inhales three slices of pizza before Cas has even finished one, and it has the Omega in stitches when he chokes on crust and has to drink his half of his cup of Coke.

“The Great Dean Winchester Dies From Choking,” Cas muses. “On Pizza.” His blue eyes concentrate on Dean and Dean alone—and he feels he should be at least a little uncomfortable, or scared, or creeped out. And he probably would be if it isn’t _Cas_ staring at him across the table.

“Well wouldn’t that be one hell of a headline,” Dean mutters, still wheezing from choking on his food. “I wonder who’d write it though.”

“If it was written for within Seraph,” Cas begins, and he looks away, like he’s really contemplating this shit, “I think Cohen would have a field day off of it.”

“Straight off the report, too,” Dean answers, chuckling to himself. “Come on, _Sweetie_ , finish your food. We gotta go shopping.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Dean looks at him, unimpressed, still not over being called “sweetie” himself a few hours earlier.

“Oh shit, sorry!” Castiel says, cracking up again. “Holy hell, I thought you didn’t hear that!”

“Oh I heard alright,” Dean says, smirking. “Loud and clear. Food, finish, _please_.”

“There are four slices, assbutt, I can’t finish all that!”

“ _Assbutt_?”

“Eh.” Cas shrugs, pushing two more slices Dean’s way, which the Alpha takes and begins biting into without further question.

“What if it’s outside, though, what do you think?” Dean asks, thoughtful as he continues their last thread of conversation.

“Hmm?” Cas hums around his bite of pizza.

“If it wasn’t for within Seraph,” Dean answers, swallowing his own bite.

Cas looks at him, blue eyes pure color filled with real thought. Dean is actually surprised by the pureness of his eye color—he’s used to the mixes of colors within his and Sam’s. He has never really looked at Dad in the eye long enough to know what his eye color was, and both Jo and Benny had eyesight problems and wore contacts. And everyone else had eye colors that changed depending on lighting.

But not Cas, he had the purest blue eyes ever. The color didn’t change at all—not when it’s dim, not when it’s light. It’s just purely blue.

“You’d probably hit the tabloids,” the Omega in question answers, bringing Dean back around to the table. “I mean, you’re an Alpha, and you’re attractive, and then you die choking on pizza.”

“That rhymes,” Dean says, grinning as Cas chuckles, not really paying attention to the fact that _Cas finds him attractive_. Nope, not paying attention to that part of the sentence at all.

“I’m awesome like that,” Cas answers, acknowledging the mockery of a cheer Dean tips his way with a nod of his own. They take their last bites of food and, after leaving enough bills to pay for it, they leave for the grocery store.

 

Shopping with Cas, for Dean, turns out to be something more of reliving his childhood—shopping with Sam, or his father, though getting to do anything relatively ‘normal’ is something of a challenge when John is in the picture. It is light, easy, and filled with pleading and whining from the older of the both of them nonetheless.

Dean’s questions of ‘ _can I please, please have this?’_ are usually answered by an exasperated (and totally predictable) ‘ _Dean_ ’ coming from the Omega, or a roll of the eyes with a decisive, final ‘ _no_ ’. Which, of course, only serves for even _more_ whining and complaints from the ‘overly manly man Alpha’ (“I’m the one pushing the fucking _cart_ , I should have rights to what makings to fucking heavy!”) which in turn gives reason for Cas to hit him upside the head.

And _damn_ if Cas doesn’t have a good arm. Dean is sure he’s going to have a concussion by the end of their shopping spree.

Though admittedly Dean enjoys and accepts the fact that they’re spending time together, that he and his Handler are bonding over the littlest, stupidest things, and that there’s actually someone who is disproving all his thoughts of having a Handler, Dean’s thoughts begin turning from things he can compartmentalize into big crates of “NO” which he can load to “NOPE TRUCK TO FUCKNOVILLE” to thoughts that disconcert him not only for their context, but for their god-awful timing, too.

 _Is this how it feels to have a mate? Or is this just a Cas thing? Why hasn’t he mated yet? He’s awesome—he could have anyone. Anyone would want him_. _Anyone could have him_.

The last thought, though just a flicker at the back of his mind, caused a sudden emotional charge on Dean, which he identifies a moment later—AKA a moment to late—as _possessiveness_.

 _Holy cheese on shit sticks_.

“Dean?” Cas says, startled, obviously hang up on the sudden pulse in his scent. Dean and Cas both know how an Alpha’s musk strengthens sevenfold during a fit for his or her mate’s claim, but neither of them expected to actually _experience it_ in any way.

“Sorry,” Dean says, doing his best to at least shrug it off, taking a deep, calming breath—the air around him is thick with his scent, and it’s miraculous how he doesn’t choke and die right there. “Sorry, got a little… uh…” _carried away, Winchester?_ that snarky, annoying little voice in his head finishes.

 _Goddamn why does_ everyone _have to have you_?

He looks up at Cas, who is staring at him, brows furrowed as if confused. Poor guy, he probably is as confused as Dean is right now. He knows that stories, about how Handlers and Hosts sometimes end up mating.

 _Wow, Winchester, didn’t know you had it in you!_ Dean Jr. (as Dean has taken to calling that annoying little fucking voice in his head) sneers.

Cas just shrugs—Dean sees it from the corner of his eyes—and continues looking over the products on the shelves aligning the aisle they’re in. Dean sighs, reaching to pinch the bridge of his nose before pushing the cart to follow Cas.

No other incident— _thank fuck_ —follows Dean’s little emotional explosion, and Dean finds himself sitting in an empty car driving to their home (for the time being, he reminds himself. _Don’t get your hopes up_ ).

He smirks to himself, because in any other circumstance he would be joking with the only other person in the car of flirting with them. Dean isn’t known to be a kept man—how exactly do you expect an unmated Alpha to _keep it in his pants_ , when everyone expects him to be a knothead anyway?

(Not that he’s a knothead, and he isn’t really that _desperate_ when he flirts, they just freaking _happen_ )

But he’s sitting here, in this car, with an Omega in the passenger seat, on their way to a house. Where they’ll be alone. And he isn’t doing anything. But the silence isn’t really oppressing. It’s not uncomfortable, or awkward, it’s…

“Companionable,” Dean settles, smiling at the sudden hint of sour surprise in his m— _GOD, WINCHESTER_ —in _Castiel’_ s scent as he jumps and looks at Dean.

“What?” he asks, confused and a little irritated.

Dean laughs. “Were you _asleep_? And you said I had the vocabulary of someone… not my age. Ish. There, this is… companionable.” Dean glances at him from the corner of his eye, finding Cas smiling at him like he’s some damned puppy. “I’m just a fucking moron, alright? Can’t expect anything more. Aren’t I?”

Cas chuckles, and Dean doesn’t find it in himself to feel at all insulted or hurt that he’s being laughed at. Instead he feels… gratified. Well, until Cas opens his mouth to talk. “No, Dean, you’re adorable.”

Dean grunts, and nope, Dean Winchester is _not_ sulking. “And dangerous.”

“Aw.” Castiel chuckles, but it turns into a little giggle and Dean is so surprised that he turns wildly towards his Handler, who looks panicked—well, his scent changed into a panic—and their eyes meet for a second before he fucking _squeaks_ and that’s it. They start laughing like two madmen—which they probably are, anyway—and they can’t stop.

Dean actually feels afraid that he’ll ram into someone in the highway, but it’s clear, and he still can’t stop laughing.

A few seconds later they’re both calm enough to actually breath properly, and Dean rolls down the windows of the car, letting the air carry their scents and ventilate it outside. It’s hard working a mission with a partner, let alone a _Handler_ , because they have to use their real scents in order to know the subtlest changes and know when and how to act.

But, as Cas’s scent settles into something calm and calming, Dean can’t seem to care anymore. He doesn’t want to leave this—this companionship, ease, calm.

And _Castiel’s scent_. Dear god.

It’s bad enough that Dean’s catching himself sniffing the air every single time he can, and Cas is still on suppressants. He finds himself wondering how it would be if he was in Heat. And _Christ_ Winchester, _tone it down_. Two days, he thinks. _Two days and he’s under your skin_.

But the Omega’s scent may as well have been specially customized so it will be something that Dean cannot fucking resist—apples and almonds and vanilla and cinnamon and hints of ozone and—for fuck’s sakes— _pie crust_ and Dean has to take a deep breath but that’s a bad idea because Cas is right beside him and _shit_.

Dean swallows nervously, carefully maneuvering around his thoughts and emotions to calm himself down and not spike his heart rate because _awkward_. But he’s finally granted respite because— _yes!_ He puts the car in park, turns the engine off, and rests his head on the steering wheel.

“ _God_ I am beat,” he breathes, sluggishly taking the key off the ignition.

Cas’s yawn is answer enough in its own right.

It takes a full four trips—well, six for him, because Cas has to stay in the kitchen to fix the shit before he goes to bed—but finally he’s showered, in clean, comfortable clothes, wrapped in—even more surprising than the state of the house itself—blankets and pillows that smell like soap and powder and fabcon and not dust and moth balls and whatnot.

The couch turns out to be pull-out, and it’s big enough to house his entire six-foot-one frame, and he smiles. He’s checked the house—all windows, doors, cupboards—and it feels unbelievable, in those few moments of drifting in and out of sleep, how it feels to know there’s someone moving in the bathroom, and they’re sleeping in the same room, and Dean is already almost asleep, which rarely ever happens because he always has to be the one who succumbs to unconsciousness last.

And once again, his mind goes to the space of _NOPEVILLE_ and brings up images of him, happy, with a child, with a fucking family.

 _Still thinking of_ not _spreading the Winchester genes, Dean? The_ healthy _ones?_

If he’s going to be perfectly honest—and he _is_ —he really doesn’t care jack about Sam’s health, or his plans to settle down and find a mate and get married and whatnot. It’s just that… with his health, his kids are probably not going to survive anyway—and Dean feels sick for thinking it, but he is _satisfied_ with that outcome.

 _There’s no point continuing this fucking family luck_ , he reasons.

Back when he was younger, he promised himself he’s never going to have kids of his own—because don’t we all?—and he’s happy just raising Sam, and having a baby brother is enough. Having his own babies? Blech.

But now that he’s older, now that he isn’t as soft or innocent as he was back then, after all the crap he’s been put through, he’s promised not to bring any children in this world if it means having to put it through the same hell. Having who knows how many generations of Winchesters doing this is enough, any more and it’s too much.

“Good night, Dean,” Cas mutters, soft and sleepy, and the room goes dark. It’s distracted Dean enough from his thoughts that it reminds him just how tired his body feels, and he feels himself slipping.

The last thought in his mind is, _I wonder how it feels to hear that from someone I could call my mate_.

**..--..**

 

The first thing Castiel notices after their first week of settling—and it still irks him that it’s what he’s thinking about—is that the atmosphere isn’t as carefree as it was. Dean seems to have fallen into an emotional limbo, turning him from the lighthearted Host who jokes and laughs with Castiel to a driven and determined Alpha so fierce that, whenever Castiel sees him, he wonders if this is the legend that he hears about on a daily basis over at HQ.

And if he is, he’d have to agree to at least one of the many rumors: being in his presence alone is fear-inducing. His eyes seem to flash a dangerous gold each time a new emotion goes through his core—be it delight, surprise, annoyance or something else.

Castiel shakes himself from his thoughts—it doesn’t matter what _mood_ his Host is in. His job is to keep him in the right headspace and to make sure nothing goes awry. Well, nothing _much_ , that is, because this whole lifestyle is something you wouldn’t actually consider _straight_.

As for the moment, they’re tracking and observing a man named Zachariah Adler. His paper trail exposes him to be straight-laced businessman, but more data dug up—with the help of techies over at Seraph, of course—show he isn’t as clean as he acts he is. He’s some shady salary man who may have information Castiel can use to help Dean get through this mission.

Both Dean and Castiel are well-versed with technology, considering the training they have had over the years (and if that doesn’t involve some kind of technological advancement then isn’t it like totally useless in this technology-driven generation?) but the Alpha leaves Castiel in the house of the day to do research and tracking on his own.

He even allows Castiel to do all the collating and summarizing—Dean doesn’t seem to mind, as long as the information he gets is understandable and reliable, it’s good enough for him. And for an Alpha who has never had a Handler before, he seems to be identifying well as a… well, _literal_ Host.

Especially when he comes back around, feeling beat—doing whatever the hell it is he does outside this house—and finds everything he wants to find on the desk they have appointed as their office, understandable, printed out, and summarized just for him.

Castiel often works in the room in front—makes it easier to know if someone’s at the front door, especially when he’s alone, and keeps him easily accessible to Dean. But most of the time he just holes himself up in the walk-in closet, cracking codes and hacking accounts and sending messages back to the Tech department at Seraph to work out.

He smiles as he thinks of Dean— _suck it up, Novak, and_ for the love of all that’s holy _stop smiling_ —because, though he usually works until he’s halfway to passing out in his little office, he sometimes brings his own devices upstairs to the bedroom. And, well. That thought’s kinda distracting because he sometimes works in _bed_ and sometimes ends up sleeping _beside_ Castiel, near enough to touch, and somehow, with just a week of it, the younger Omega’s already getting used to it.

Castiel takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes, gulping his—now lukewarm, eck—cup of coffee and exhales slowly, his shoulders stooping as he relaxes. He looks at the window and scowls—he looks like a fucking zombie.

And he’s stuck in this house.

He doesn’t have direct orders to _stay_ inside the house of course, but since he’s not being given any _other_ instructions, he’s assumed that that’s what Dean expects him to do. But there’s just so much research you can do on one guy you haven’t even seen in the flesh yet.

(But seriously, would _you_ want to see Zachariah? Castiel is only looking at his picture and he feels what can only be described as heebie jeebies).

But, as he’s looking at one of the many LCD screens they’ve set up—“For surveillance, ‘sides, he doesn’t know,” Dean said about them—and again he feels tired. Well, he’s always tired—that’s a side effect of your body trying to kill itself and trying to recover _at the exact same time_ —but this kind of tired is almost bone-deep, something that keeps him aching no matter how much coffee or sleep he takes.

His head snaps up when the speaker starts beeping and a screen flashes red, noting something changed—or something that the scramblers they’ve latched onto Mr. Adler’s contact devices have detected something… malicious.

He’s on it immediately, his fingers flying over the keyboard on the side of the desk as his eyes trail over the many different number-letter combinations flowing down his screen like water. He puts the code into a Translator someone over at Tech developed, and it works itself through for seven whole minutes before it sends the translated-to-human language message in another screen.

His eyes grow big in excitement at seeing an email.

 

_Monday [September 16]  
09:54:39_

_From: F.k.o.h.C_  
To: Zachariah Adler, Managing Director (EZ Technologies)  
Re: [NO SUBJECT]

 _>_ Quickie @ Rosie’s (corner by 6th & CT Hall)  
>September 21st (2000)  
>New delivery  
>Alone

TRANS. HgL10 (10:02)  
HISTORY CLEARED

Castiel grins. He almost feels like squealing in excitement—this, right here, is progress.

As he’s looking for his phone—it must be here _somewhere_ —his eyes land on the only white folder among the differently colored ones—the one folder where everything about the person they’re about to rescue is on.

He’s read through Adam Milligan’s file countless times, but still, something about the only picture he’s been provided with—a candid shot of a college boy in an MIT sweatshirt and jeans, with long-ish blond hair and blue-green eyes that seem to speak to Castiel a strange sense of familiarity—because he’s so _young_.

 

 _Name:_ **Adam Michael Milligan**  
Last known location **: Massachusetts Institute of Technology Campus  
** Birth date: **September 29, 1992**

PRNT. GLxF96

****

Kid’s barely even _legal_. God, how he wants to just... just. He sighs, knowing that these are just his gender-related instincts, because, whether he likes it or not, he will always have a weakness for young ones. He’s an _Omega_ , for fuck’s sakes, he gives _birth_ and he’s the one who _raises_ babies.

His mind jumps to the probability of what Dean is busy about, or if he should call the Alpha at all. Castiel _knows_ what Dean’s “specialty” is, what their bosses are expecting him to do.

Castiel looks at Adam’s picture again, and his eyes harden.

It’s either the sick bastards or this _child_. The longer he and his Host flounder about, the longer Adam probably _suffers_ under the hands of his kidnappers.

He reaches for his phone—finally finding it in one of the drawers—and clicks it open, dialing a few codes into the pre-installed contact list to be able to actually connect to Dean’s, and puts the device against his ear.

 

**..--..**

Dean straightens up, clapping his palms together to get rid of most of the worst of the dust. And then he looks around himself—scrunching his nose and screaming “ _PINEAPPLE. PINEAPPLES ARE FUCKING SOUR!”_ in his head to fend off the impending sneeze.

He’s been working here nonstop for the whole week, and he’d been screaming PINEAPPLE or VINEGAR or SOUR in his head until the voice actually starts sounding _sore_ to fend off multiple sneezes. It makes him feel awful, grouchy and frustrated as hell—because let’s face it, aborted sneezes is almost as bad as unresolved sexual frustration—but he has to keep as little of his own fluids touching anything in this shack as much as possible.

And then he sighs, annoyed, because _yes_ , he asked for a shack, but this place is practically going to _fall on his head_ if he so dares as step too heavy on the floors. Well, maybe… probably an exaggeration, but you’re never too sure.

It’s a small barn (if it can even be called a freaking barn) that’s abandoned in the middle of nowhere, dusty and creaky and not even a single teenager has cared to explore this far into the abandoned woods to graffiti shit on the walls.

Which is probably a good thing, because he doesn’t want _anyone_ finding what he’s hidden in here—and that annoys and bugs him even more than he’d ever admit.

Because, okay, so Seraph is highly efficient and wants its job done. Holy hell, Dean asked for a shack and _they gave them one_ just so he can work his fucking “magic” on whoever sick bastard kidnapped—or knows what the fuck happened—to his little brother. He’s hidden here all things one can think of for torture.

And then he’s thinking of Cas again. He shakes his head, some flecks of _stuff_ actually falling off his short hair, and he fights the urge to spit out whatever’s gotten into his mouth.

“This is just plain disgusting,” he says to no one, wiping his hands off his pant leg and almost jumping— _no one fucking knows that_ —when the phone in his pocket begins ringing. He debates checking. No one knows how to contact _this_ phone, because it isn’t the one Seraph provided for him for cover, and he knows only a few people actually know this phone number.

He frowns. His family knows not to call when someone’s on a job. And then he fishes it out quickly—sure enough, it’s from Cas.

“God dammit,” he mutters, and then he clicks the button and puts the thing against his ear. “Cas? Everything okay?”

“Everything’s okay, Dean,” Cas answers, sounding amused. “Something came up though.”

Dean can practically hear Cas’s excitement over his speakers, but he can’t stop the relief from flooding his veins either. “Well, let’s hear it then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To whoever's wondering:  
> TRANS. HgL10 = Translated [by machine/processor code] 10 [authorized by signature] HgL  
> PRNT. GLxF96 = Printed [by machine/processor code] 96 [authorized by signature] GLx  
> **I honestly don't know what "signature" means, could be the person, could be the department. Meh.
> 
> *  
> Again, the first (weirder) parts of the chapter is dedicated to Dax/Daki, because he's cool, and I'll miss him because we've finally married him off. And, well, that's where I was on Saturday (and I was still hung-over yesterday).
> 
> Anyway, I just read through the story and I just figured, the chapters are short. I don't know if that's something good or something unhealthy. What do you guys prefer? Longer chapters but less in number, or shorter chapters but more in number?
> 
> Ugh. (Oh, and I don't have a Beta, and English isn't my native language, so if you have corrections and suggestions, please, please, drop a comment. If you're still reading this, thank you. :))
> 
> [ Tumblr ](http://theorynpractice.tumblr.com) (Drop me a message, or a prompt, or whatever. Say hi!!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One of our bugs just intercepted a—get this—coded email to Zachariah Adler from… probably another _codename_ F-K-O-H,” Cas says. There’s a sound of shuffling—probably from moving around—before he continues. “He’s going to some delivery happening this Saturday at a bar called Rosie’s. Do you know where that is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is being edited :D**

“One of our bugs just intercepted a—get this—coded email to Zachariah Adler from… probably another _codename_ F-K-O-H,” Cas says. There’s a sound of shuffling—probably from moving around—before he continues. “He’s going to some delivery happening this Saturday at a bar called Rosie’s. Do you know where that is?”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, I know where that is. Near the city hall?”

“Uh-huh, apparently. It’s around eight, yeah.”

“Alright. Well, wanna go grab lunch from there? I think it’d really help if we _didn’t_ just show up on Saturday.”

“Yes, that would seem impossibly suspicious.”

Dean surprises them both with a snort. “Okay, okay. Go get ready. I’ll be there in twenty.”

Cas doesn’t even say anything—just hangs up and Dean slips his phone back into his pocket. He looks around one more time, taking in the rotten wood, peeling paint, creaky boards. And then he bends over and grabs his duffel bag—now empty—and leaves through a hole in the wall that looks ragged and scary if you think of tetanus and whatever other infections you can get from rotting, jagged wood.

He shudders as he leaves, breathing in the open air that greets his face when he leaves the rank insides of that barn or shack or whatever. He pulls his jacket closer—it’s a little cold now—and looks around. It’s ingrained in him to look out for himself—if not for his brother or partner—whether he’s sure he wasn’t followed or not.

He’s surrounded by grass—that itch like a _bitch_ let me tell you—taller than he is. They go back to their positions no matter how much Dean weighs as he steps on them, which helps when he’s getting rid of his tracks, but doesn’t when he doesn’t want rashes because of how much he ends up scratching at his hands or neck. There’s a hip high fence that closes off this particular patch of land, with rusted barbed-wires weaved between the rails. There’s a creaky gate with a lock—but Dean doesn’t actually use it, he simply jumps over the rails, doing his best not to touch _anything_ , before he walks off.

Adam’s face keeps flashing in his mind—those few times since he’s met the kid when he was fourteen that he’s seen him. He’s like the little brother one can ever ask for. He looked up to Dean and John in reverence, and he got along well with Sammy, too. Even _Kate_ was nice.

He closes his eyes and squeezes them shut as he tries to clear himself from his thoughts. Because really, see how much those two have lost simply because they’ve been involved with the _Winchesters_. They must be bad luck or something. Because Kate is out there, raising her kid alone, living on whatever money Dean can spare from Sam’s meds to keep Adam in school, and no one’s even heard of John for the past couple months.

But he lets himself smile, feeling a swell of pride for the Omega working his ass of as his Handler. Because, in just five more days, there’s a big possibility that he’s going to be able to finally do something _tangible_ in this mission. It’s not just reading from files and surveillance anymore, it’s something physical.

And _damn_ if he’s going to let anything get in between him and this meeting.

He parked the rental car a few miles away from the actual dirt trail that leads to the piece of farmland Seraph had acquired for his use, making sure that no one found it by hiding it behind the line of trees surrounding the place.

It was a hike—and, even with the chill of the season, Dean finds himself perspiring as he climbs into the car and drives back towards town, careful in merging with the traffic to make sure _no one_ is suspicious and _no one_ tries to check out his trail. It’s a little paranoid, maybe, but there’s nothing too sure about their line of work—especially with what they’re trying to achieve.

Zachariah Adler is one of this town’s biggest baddies. Though he’s known to be a corporate desk jockey, he still has power over some of the weapons underneath the people—the dangerous weapons even his Alpha instincts are telling him to be wary of. So, no, they really can’t take any chances.

Not a single one.

The drive back towards the town proper is silent—he can’t even find it in himself to turn the radio on or put a CD into the jack. He’d rather listen to his cassettes or his walkman— _it doesn’t matter that it’s phased out, nope_ —than to whatever perky DJ the radio stations in this place can pick up.

Dean passes by the bar on his way to picking Cas up, glancing at his hind mirror several times on the way to make sure he wasn’t followed. So far he seems safe, but he takes the longer route anyway—one he’s found and cut through several times during the past week to ward off any possible followers. If the locals ask, he can always say he’s checking out the town—since it _does_ fall with the story he’s made up for his and Cas’s presence.

Well, that’s a story Cas has to learn, isn’t it? Dean slows down to a stop across the street from their little house, getting there just in time for Cas to turn around from locking the door. Dean tries to stop his smile, but he can’t—really, he _can’t_. There’s something about Cas that seems… well, weird.

Yeah, his Handler’s right. He _doesn’t_ have the vocabulary of a person his age.

“Hey, Cas,” he greets, as the Omega climbs into the seat beside him. He sniffs surreptitiously, just trying to get a whiff of his pie-like scent that has Dean almost obsessing over him. _God. This is so wrong_.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas answers, his voice low and gravelly and inappropriate for this time of the day. “This seems like a good change.”

“Yeah, ‘bout that. Sorry,” Dean answers, glancing at the Omega quickly before shifting on to drive. “Figured you’d be tired of the house—and my face—by now. So, Rosie’s?” He looks at Cas, who’s grinning but looking out the window, and he grins himself. “It’s actually the one place I’ve been grabbing lunch from this whole week. And we have a pretty solid story, if you ask me.”

“Really? What’s the story?”

“I’m helping you move in, and you’re looking for a job while I go around getting used to the town, that’s why they only see me. I think it’s pretty solid, but you can knock me upside the head if it’s too much.”

“No, it’s good, actually. I think we can work it.”

“Of course we can.”

Dean doesn’t even have to look at the person beside him to know he’s being looked at with a face he can only express as _dude, WTF_. For someone rumored to be as badass as Cas, he sure has easily readable expressions sometimes.

He tells Cas about grabbing drinks at the bar several times over the past week—about Sonny, the Beta who owns and runs the bar after his mother, Rosie, who put it up about thirty years ago—but promises he hasn’t been slacking off, and has been doing his job, which—of course—leads Cas to ask about what he _has_ been doing in the past week.

Dean automatically tenses, feeling a little defensive—and, if you ask him real nice, a little anxious, too—scowling and sending the little comfortable space they have between them to a heavy and uncomfortable silence.

“Don’t get me wrong, Cas,” he says immediately, scrambling over himself to rectify the situation (whatever situation this is). “I’m not keeping you in the dark or anything. It’s just—”

“It’s a touchy subject,” Cas interrupts, making Dean scowl even further. “I understand. You don’t have to—”

“Well obviously you _don’t_ understand and I _have_ to explain,” Dean says over him, his scent changing into the hot smell of an angry Alpha. He struggles to rein himself in, taking deep breaths until his scent is back to relative normalcy before he starts speaking again, his voice a deadly calm that he isn’t sure if really _appropriate_ to be using on the person he’s working the case with. “It’s something no one—no one. Ever.—talks about. Okay? It’s the one thing, one _part_ of this whole shit we don’t have to lay down.”

He looks at the Omega, who is looking back at him, his face impassive as his eyes. And then he looks away, and they continue their drive tensely, as if they’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 _I’m not sure what they were_ thinking _putting me on a job with a fucking Handler,_ Dean thinks, the voice in his head vocally shaking his head.

_You’re enjoying this little trip, Dean-o, admit it._

_No I’m not._

_YES YOU ARE_

_SHUT THE FUCK UP_

And now he’s arguing with the voice in his head—which honestly sounds like Sam. They arrive to the bar and he parks at the curb, letting Cas get out of the car first before he even tries. The first thing Cas does is to look around them, surreptitiously, in a trained sweep of his eyes. When he seems satisfied no one followed them, he looks over his shoulder at Dean, who slams his door shut and walks over.

As he does he feels around his himself—making it look like a quick frisk for his keys. His knives, the handgun, the flashlight, and the incapacitators are still in their proper places, much to his relief, and he sweeps his arm out to Cas in a graceful little bow to let him go into the bar first.

And then he follows right after.

 

**..--..**

 

The bar, in Castiel’s eyes, is like any bar you would imagine stepping into before midday. There isn’t a lot of people, it’s relatively quiet, and it doesn’t smell as rank as he expected it to. But what does he know? The only bars he’s ever been to are the ones he had to work on.

Rosie’s is still a sight, though—it’s set up in a wide bungalow, half of it cement and the other half raised by a step wooden and polished. The front, cement floor is empty—lined by booths on all side and this is probably the dance floor or something. The lights overhead aren’t on. It’s the second half that Castiel really finds himself appreciating—the wood makes it feel like a hometown diner, with the tables arranged haphazardly like it doesn’t matter if the servers find it hard to move around.

Dean leads them right towards the bar, where a man—a Beta—is wiping down the polished wood, resolutely keeping his head down. When he looks up, it’s when Dean greets him with an enthusiastic call of “Sonny!” and he looks old—probably around fifty, if Castiel’s guestimate is correct.

“Ross!” Sonny says—and, _Ross? What_?—“I was expectin’ to see ya a li’l la’er, son!” Castiel fights his frown. It’s almost hard to understand what he’s saying. And, Ross? What’s Castiel’s name?

He looks at Dean quickly, who’s still grinning, and is now straddling one of the stools at the bar. Castiel hastily sits on the one beside him, earning him an amused look from the Beta.

“An’ who’s this li’l person righ’ ‘ere?” Sonny squints at Castiel, and again, he resists the urge to back down, instead just slumping in his seat and looking at Dean, again. He’s never been this thankful for his gender status, because _of course_ you as the Alpha who his companions are, and that also means that, if Dean has given him a name before, he’ll learn it before he says something that may blow their cover.

“This is Dmitri, that new friend I told you about?” Dean answers easily, thumbing at the Omega. “He’s looking for a job, but I realized, hey—why not ask him out to lunch before he holes himself up forever? He’s a bit of a recluse, see.” The last is said with amusement that Castiel does not really understand—or appreciate for that matter.

“Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Castiel says, breaking all conventions Sonny might think they’ve made—in some parts of the world, the Alpha still has to introduce the others to the Omega before the latter is allowed to speak.

“I’is a pleasure ‘o meet ya, ‘oo,” Sonny answers, smiling at him before looking back at Dean. “I take I’ yar orderin’ two of yar usual?”

Dean smiles and nods, but he and Sonny continue speaking, and Castiel is fine with that. It gives him a chance to think the past few minutes over, and because he doesn’t really understand much of what Sonny is saying. He has some speech issue and it makes him hard to hear.

Dean seems at ease as he talks to the older man, smiling and gesturing widely around and laughing boisterously. It sort of saddens Castiel that he’s somehow ruined what little peace they used to have with his pesky curiosity, but really, can he help it?

Though he doesn’t really need to know. Dean hasn’t put him or himself in danger yet, so really, who’s worrying? His thoughts flash quickly towards Adam Milligan, at his young smiling face and what he’s done.

He’s probably getting tortured somewhere in this city, for the same reason he and Dean are here, sent by Seraph—his specific instructions _are_ , after all, to make sure Adam makes it back to home base safely, even if that means sacrificing one or both of them.

And, had Castiel not been this deeply involved in his case, he’s sure he would’ve been impressed. Adam and his band of teenage techies at the MIT and other universities from other countries had created a superbug that dropped digital defenses around the world—sending Russian, American, British, Japanese, Chinese, among others, governments scrambling to put their defenses back up and to point fingers at one another.

And then, twelve hours later, they were able to hack into international info-compilation—and that’s _everything_ , negative and positive, good and bad, emails and terrorism.

And all before he’s even started his junior year.

The people who reported him missing was, surprisingly, not Kate Milligan—his mother—but some kids—Garth Fitzgerald, Kevin Tran, Ash Lindberg, Charlie Bradbury, and a list of other people reporting he hasn’t been to class for three whole days.

The police had tried their best. But an informant within the force had let Seraph into who Adam Milligan really is—and Castiel is sure that, even while they’re on this mission to rescue the young man, his bosses are keeping their eyes peeled and stuck on the other people around Adam.

Who knows what they, too, can do? Probably a whole lot worse. Teenagers these days are awfully _scary_ , never mind that he may still be considered a child himself.

He’s been so distracted by his thoughts that he hasn’t even noticed he’s eating, and drinking, and he is only distracted when he hears a sultry voice from beside him.

“Hello, Ross,” the woman says, and Castiel sniffs in secret, crunching his nose. A _Beta_. He looks at her but she’s looking over his shoulder—probably at the very attractive, very _eye-catching_ Alpha beside him.

“Jenna,” Dean greets back, Castiel turning in time to catch a wink. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, looking down at his food to try to chase his quickly diminishing appetite. Really, if Dean wants to _flirt_ , he can do it. It’s his time. It’s his body.

Castiel tries to keep this in mind as Dean continues to mindlessly flirt with the—admittedly—attractive Beta, who flirts back just aggressively, and Castiel is sure that Dean’s going to be _busy_ tonight.

The thought sends a surprising bolt of jealousy down Castiel spine, alarming the Alpha beside him into a defensive position , turning fully to get him  between his legs.

“Uh… Dmitri?” Dean says slowly, touching Castiel’s arm, and a hot surge of possessiveness grips Castiel.

Omegas _could_ show possessiveness the same way as Alphas, Betas, and Thetas do—by a strength in scent—but _no_ , biology has other fucking plans for the lowest gender. They have to go into a two-minute pseudoheat because _holy shit_ their mates are leaving them for another person and chances are they won’t survive.

 _Fuck biology_.

Omegas have to find ways—no matter how underhanded—to keep their mates to themselves, close to them, _attracted_ to them, and Castiel feels himself blushing in embarrassment because Dean is _so not_ his mate and this is the first time he’s ever reacted to an Alpha this way and is it because of the fucking Spiral or—

“Hey,” Dean says, right at his ear, and Castiel shivers, unconsciously leaning closer to his heat—the drop in emotions and his hormones is so quick that he closes his eyes, feeling dizzy and a little nauseated.

As he calms down he notices Dean’s hand on his hip, his nose at the back of his ear, and of Jenna wide-eyed and contrite on his other side.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says softly, “I’m sorry. Sorry, okay? Calm down. Do you want to finish eating or do you want to get out of here?”

Castiel knows he should feel embarrassed. Or mad, because he’s being treated like some helpless, hapless damsel. But he knows he _is_ just a damsel right now, and he should just take the out Dean is offering him. Castiel nods at Dean, feeling the Alpha’s nose bump against the back of his head.

“Can we leave?” he asks lowly, keeping his eyes closed. He’s like a child again—if he doesn’t see the world, the world can’t see him. It helps a little.

“Yeah, of course we can,” Dean breathes. He pulls away—and Castiel absolutely bit that whimper off—before he turns Castiel, resting a hand on the Omega’s neck. He swallows as Dean smiles.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says immediately, keeping his eyes down. Only his training his stopping him from baring his neck in submission, too, because a) Dean is not his mate, b) this is Dean’s fault in the first place, and c) he shouldn’t be trusting Dean.

But the thing is, he _does_. He absolutely, terrifyingly trusts the Alpha smiling down at him.

 

Castiel watches from the car as Dean talks with Sonny at the bar doors—probably apologizing for Castiel’s behaviors, too. But Dean keeps sending him small smiles and little waves, as if he’s calming down someone unstable down, which, in his defense, Castiel probably is.

He groans, rubbing his hand down his face and absently scratching at the scruff around his jaw.

God, he—there really isn’t any other word for it— _ran_ from the bar as soon as Dean got his hand of his neck and simply grabbed the keys out of the Alpha’s hand, holing himself up in the car in shame. He looks at Dean again, and then tries to think back.

No, this isn’t the first unmated Alpha he’s Handled. Dean surely isn’t the first person to _flirt_ with the people they interact with. But his reactions—there isn’t any other reason behind his reactions to Dean, except… well, unwelcome territoriality.

 _I wonder how Dean feels about this whole crap,_ he thinks, because this is as new to him as his illness. And he _liked_ it when Dean’s scent pulsed around him in that one show of possessiveness—though there wasn’t really anything that could have triggered it.

Maybe Dean was thinking of someone else—maybe Dean is courting someone else.

The thought of Dean— _Dean,_ not just any Alpha, but _this_ Alpha he’s working with—taking someone else as a mate settles something sick and uncomfortable at the bottom of Castiel’s stomach, and he feels like bringing up the few spoonfuls of food he managed to take in.

His hand unconsciously wraps around his wrist, thumb stroking over his sleeve to where that stupid Spiral is showing as a sign that he’s dying. And then he remembers that second time he was in the same room as Dean Winchester—the feeling of his hand wrapped around the same wrist, how the Spiral seemed to _pulse_ under the Alpha’s grip.

He shoves his hands to his sides when the driver’s door opens, bringing in with it the chill air and a whiff of Dean’s scent.

“You okay?”

Castiel looks up, eyeing Dean. He doesn’t _look_ judgmental, but really, what does _Castiel_ know? Maybe Dean’s laughing at him in his head. Or just thinking of a million ways to pull this one over and report to Seraph. And where would that land Castiel? Where he belongs.

“Cas, Cas. Look at me.”

He does.

And Dean looks _concerned._ He doesn’t leer, like the other Alphas, he’s not even showing any form of amusement. Castiel tries to think, but he can’t, not really. He’s still a little shifty. Dean climbs in, but doesn’t start the car even after Castiel hands over the keys.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says again. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m… I don’t know what’s wrong. I… really, I’m sorry. I’m just. Dean—”

“Hey,” Dean interrupts gently, reaching up and slowly reaching towards— _holy shit_ —Castiel’s right hand and— _he’s not supposed to know. Does he know_? Somehow, a hint of Dean’s knowledge of his illness brings about its own wave of panic and a strange sense of calm. “Will you stop thinking, Cas?”

And maybe he should stop calling Castiel that. He’s never really liked nicknames, especially when all he ever got were monikers like ‘Cassie’ or ‘weirdo’ or, worse, and the most degrading, ‘bitch’. Well, he _is_ , and maybe he should just find a mate and stay at home and—

“Cas,” Dean says again, and this time there _is_ a hint of amusement in his voice. “Seriously, stop thinking.” He then grabs the Handler’s wrist, and Castiel gasps— _there it is again_. It’s like the Spiral has a pulse of its own and it’s reacting to _Dean_. “And stop apologizing, okay? _I_ should be sorry.”

“We’re both idiots, aren’t we,” Castiel mutters, blue eyes trained on the Alpha’s fingers around his wrist. Its effects on him are _unbelievable_ —it’s like a balm or something. “What did Sonny say?”

“Called me fucking idiot, for one,” Dean muses, tightening his grip, “and then told me to get you home. Do you _want_ to go home, Cas?”

Castiel bites his lip and thinks it over. “No. But. We have to make a report to Cohen and—”

“And so we’re going somewhere. I’ve been here before.”

“Dean—”

“Cas, let it go.”

Castiel, surprisingly—and completely out of character—does.

 

**..--..**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read on any of the shizz about this verse, I've created a [ glossary that explains ](http://theorynpractice.tumblr.com/post/83702282828/the-glossary) for the story. It has all the major terms and derivations to the A/B/O, societal, medical, and everything else, dynamics I've made on this story. Hopefully it helps!!
> 
> [ Tumblr ](http://theorynpractice.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He opens his eyes and breathes in—managing to scream just before something covers his whole face.

Cas _really_ doesn’t slip up again after that.

Honestly, Dean’s missing the happy-hippy Cas used to be in the first two weeks. After that he’s all work—making plans for the coming Saturday (because they actually have to get to Zachariah Adler)—and going over it again and again and again until Dean gives up and sulks.

Which he gets yelled at for.

And, true to form, he yells right back.

Really, they should at least try to get along _a little_ because this is the fourth night—the night before Zachariah Adler’s appearance at this very bar—and they’re not even really talking.

Jenna and Sonny look at them with amused faces—the former even going as far as kicking Dean in the shin and hissing “Have you apologized properly?” as she passed to serve drinks to the rest of the people at the dance floor.

If you ask Dean, he’d say it’s all Cas—because Dean _wants_ to talk and _wants_ to get along but it’s Cas who doesn’t answer and who’s curt and who keeps Dean on a short leash.

Wow, that sounds really cynical.

But there _have_ been highlights to the week—like, for example, in between getting yelled at, and working on the shack, and reading whatever files and updates they can get, Dean finds time to call Seraph—and have little conversations with the different people he _hasn’t_ gotten up to talking to in the past week or two.

 

The first person he’s called, of course, is Sam (because the kid won’t shut up if he finds out Dean called Jo or Benny or Gwen or Chris or whoever before he called the younger brother). Funny thing is, Sam answered only after two tries—and the second time, Dean counted eleven rings. (His principle in calling is waiting until the twelfth ring, just before voicemail.)

“Dean,” Sam answered then, sounding breathless and excited.

“Sammy, you okay?” Dean asked immediately, because a breathless Sam can only one of two things: a) he’s having an attack, or b) he’s about to _have_ an attack. “Are you alone? Sam—”

“I’m _fine_ , Dean,” he answered, and Sam _did_ sound fine—it’s the sound of someone who just ran. Or you know, just did some extraneous activities. “I just came from the gym, is all. Hey, how’s the job?”

“Everything’s good.” He glanced at Cas, who was walking around the living room holding up two rims of paper—what it was for, he can only guess (printing? Notes? Or something?). “I mean, as good as this kind of job gets.”

He can almost hear Sam’s eye roll. “Well, okay. I mean, how are you working with your Handler? There’re new rumors flying about now, you know. Doesn’t really help that Pellegrino’s enjoying himself with the field reports.”

Dean groaned, because he knows what that means—it means Lucifer Pellegrino is, true to the Biblical manifestation of his name, feeding sin within the population at Seraph. “God, that fucker. I’m doing _fine_ , thank you very much. Well, we may be a bit of… _not_ in speaking terms right now, but that’s more the product of circumstance than a side-effect of some ill-placed social call.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re a _bitch_. How’re you doing?”

“I’m doing _fine_ , Dean, I told you not to worry about me! Anyway, do you want to hear about the newest, funniest rumor?”

“What, you mean funnier than the rumor of me punching Gwen’s supposed suitor?”

“As far as I know, there _is_ a guy named Mau, somewhere out there. He just isn’t Gwen’s… suitor. Or something. Yeah, I think it’s funnier than that.”

“Wow, that’s surprising.”

“ _Dean._ ”

“Alright, but no, I really don’t want to hear it. You know, after hearing you celebrated graduating college by trashing a funeral, you really don’t want to hear anything else anymore. I haven’t even _been_ to college.”

“Yeah, you have. You did like, the required one-oh-three days.”

When Dean hang up, Cas had given him six more pages of reading to do (but seriously, how much do you have to read about one case?) and he begins reading as he dials Benny’s number. At least _this_ guy doesn’t let Dean wait up for too long. He answers on the seventh ring.

“Dean, brotha!” he greeted, in that Louisiana drawl that sounds like Sonny but is still a little more understandable. “You haven’ called in tha last two weeks. What’sup?”

“Hey, Benny,” he answered, rubbing the pieces of paper in his hand against his nose— _oh wow, they smell like Cas. For fuck’s sake_ —“I know, sorry. The job’s been keeping me busy lately. Haven’t even called Sammy ‘til now. And you know, this Handler thing isn’t really what everyone’s cracked it up to be.”

“’Course not. You listen to other people too much, you know that? It’s time to listen to yourself, brotha. Only ‘em pigheaded Alphas who look down on tha other genders, you know?”

Dean chuckled. “Since when did you get wise? Have you been spending time with Sam again?”

“Had to find myself the next Winchester, didn’t I? But kidding aside, brotha. I hope you really are doing well.”

“Did you know that the job’s my little brother?”

“Sam?”

“No, the other one. Adam, my dad’s youngest kid.”

“You’ll get to him, brotha.”

“Yeah, I hope so. Anyway, how are _you_ doing? Enjoying your little paradise with Andrea?”

Benny chuckled—and Dean can hear that sickening sweetness in his fellow Alpha’s voice that made him roll his eyes. “Andrea’s just wonderful, Dean. You know when I agreed to have her Handler me, I never thought we’d end up, you know, mated? I’ve never not regretted a decision my whole life.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, alright. If you were talking to _her_ she’d be correcting your grammar, dumbass. When are you getting married?”

“We’ve agreed we’d wait for you.”

“Aw, I’m touched. You don’t _have_ to wait for me, you know that, right? You can get married anytime.”

“No, she insisted. You know how women can be.”

“And that’s a _Beta_ woman, so I don’t think I’d like to question it anymore. Anyway, alright, I’ll try to get this wrapped up within the month.”

“Get your brother home, alright, brotha?”

That got him quiet. Really, this job’s been playing with his feelings since it’s been assigned to him. One second he’s alright, he’s okay, he’s a little happy—and then bam, it’s gone. He’s back to the depression shit Sam had warned him about. He sighed. “Yeah, I’ll get Adam home. Thanks, Benny, bye.”

“Yeah. See ya, Dean.”

He didn’t call anyone after that, just read through the papers Cas had given him—three pages of which were three different schedules under the same name, in three different days. Zachariah must have the most flexible schedule Dean has ever seen. But the other three—they’re transcripts.

Transcripts of conversations on the phone, or recorded from personal meetings.

“Hey Cas?” he called, because he really didn’t know how Cas could’ve found all these on his own. “How’d you get the recordings?”

“The building’s audio trackers,” Cas answered. “I asked someone back at Seraph to do the records and made the transcripts myself.”

“Oh, alright.” Well, that made sense.

And then that night they went to Rosie’s for a few drinks—both he and Cas getting flirted with by a great many people—well, probably half the club. That’s strange, if you think about it, but everyone seems to like them enough, and no one’s suspicious, so at least that’s a good thing.

Well, unless you count the stink-eye they send each other whenever they make eye contact during said flirtations.

The next day he made phone calls again—this time to his cousin first, who sounded more tired than she did when he was back at the office.

 

“Hey, dumb fuck, how are you?” she greeted, her voice tired and breathy.

“Have you been resting? At all?” Dean answered, because he’s used to insults—what’s family without a little bit of hurt feelings and forgiveness, right? “Gwen.”

“I’m _fine_ , I’ve been resting, and I asked you a question.”

“Wow, grouchy.”

“Shut _up_ , fucker, I’m not in the mood. I’m on my period, and _really_ , I asked you a question.”

You know those posts on the internet about women going crazy during their time of the month? That’s not true. Women are relatively normal during their periods, but if you annoy them, irritate them, just as much as you do any normal person, then of _course_ they’d snap. “Oh, alright. I’m fine, thanks, how are you?”

“I hate you.”

And then she promptly hung up. Rude, but Dean deserved it, pretty much. Or, well, you know. So he called up Jo.

“Harvelle the great speaking, who are _you_?”

“Hello to you, too, Jo. I’m still alive, thank you, doing my job well enough that I’ll survive to see you again.”

“Very good, bye.”

And _she_ hung up, too.

If Dean was in the right state of mind—but who in his world is?—he’d be offended. But then he’d only frowned, nodded, and then slipped his phone back into his pocket.

And he began reviewing and reading through the compiled research on his desk again.

Cas has been on and off the phone lately, too, which was good, of course, because that means people still care whether they’re alive or not, and by the end of that evening they had a report to submit to their bosses about their plans.

And, unknown to Cas, Dean had slipped in a coded message of his own—letting them know not to worry because he’ll be doing _his_ assigned job, the job everyone—everyone upstairs, that is—expects him to do.

 

Cas stays silent for most of the night, his eyes roving around the people with detached interest. Someone’s talking to him, to his left, away from where Dean is sitting, but, to Dean’s perverse delight, Cas isn’t paying him much attention.

It’s almost ten o’clock—and half an hour after the usual time they leave the bar—and more and more teenagers are joining the mob. Dean and Cas are both relatively young, but that’s according to Dean—he just turned twenty eight, but that’s okay.

As he said, he’s still young.

Or maybe he’s just drunk?

 _Ha, dumb fuck_.

The blond young man—an Alpha, if Dean’s nose isn’t betraying him—leaves Cas alone then, patting him on the thigh, and his smile is somewhat discomforting. Something in the glint of his eye—as he glances at Dean—tells Dean something will go wrong real fast tonight.

And then someone sidles up to him and taps _him_ on the thigh, so he turns his attention to the person—a male, relatively attractive Theta—who’s grinning at him toothily. Honestly, he’s just making sure the kid doesn’t notice he has a leather holster hidden under his jeans strapped around that thigh.

“Hey,” Dean says anyway, smiling back as charmingly, and then gulping his beer. “Good mood tonight?”

“You bet,” he answers, bravely leaning up against Dean to answer right at his ear. “Are you here alone?”

Though Dean finds it strange for a Theta to be _flirting_ with an Alpha, he turns his head anyway, so he could answer right at the kid’s ear, too. “No,” he says simply. “Aren’t I a little too old to be your type?”

The kid, to his surprise, laughs. “No, no one’s too old for me. Too bad though, you’re cute.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, _thanks_.”

The kid pulls away from him, winking lasciviously one last time before turning on his heels. Dean has heard of Thetas act totally opposite of what their gender usually dictates—though, like Omegas such as Cas, and Alphas such as Benny, in the modern world, there _isn’t_ a rulebook telling anyone their gender should act like _this_ or like _that_ anymore.

Thetas are usually an amalgamation of the flexibility of an Alpha, the gender neutrality of a Beta, and the submissiveness of an Omega. That’s the ironic idiosyncrasy of the Theta.

And then Dean sighs, feeling a headache coming on—one is not supposed to think of deep societal philosophies while imbibing copious—but, well, they’re on the job, so it’s really scant—amounts of alcohol, after all.

But then, when you think about it, society really is made up of irony—without whatever clashing concepts it puts into juxtaposition, society would _cease to exist_. Leaders and followers. Voters and nominees. Good and evil. Crime and goodwill.

And—

 _Wow, Winchester, you’re such a philosopher when you’re drunk_ , his mind supplies, though, if he listens more carefully, even _that_ voice sounds drunk. Ha. Ha. Haha. Hahaha.

Dean jumps, startled, when someone claps him on the shoulder. Immediately his hand goes to his hip, where one of his knives is hidden, but he relaxes when he gets a whiff of Cas’s scent.

“I wanna go home,” he says, and whoa, he’s so close, Dean can feel the Omega’s breath against his cheek. “I’ll wait outside, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, that’s cool, I’ll just pay,” Dean answers, and he’s surprised he can even make a coherent sentence. He frowns, catching Cas’s wrist before he can walk away. “Are you alright?”

“I,” Cas begins. Dean looks up, watching his blue eyes—they seem to be swimming, flirting with the color black, before he nods his head and turns away. “I’m alright. I’ll wait outside.”

“Okay.”

Dean lets him go, going for his wallet to pay. But no one’s at the bar—and he’s not _too drunk_ to think no one will see his money on the bar. And wow, free money, right? It’s a bar, and, like childhood, it usually applies the law “finders’ keepers, losers’ weepers”.

So he waits a little more, his eyes roving through the bar, when his eyes catch on a familiar little box on another stood about nine or ten away from his. He stands and walks over, picking it up, seeing it as Cas’s mint box. He frowns, and flips it over, because it has Cas’s name (his fake one) printed at the bottom and _mints are prescribed now_?

But this isn’t just mint, they’re inhibitors. Hey, who calls these inhibitors anymore? They’re _suppressants_.

“Is that… Dmitri’s?”

Dean looks up, and Jenna is looking at the box in his hand with something akin to horror.

“Yeah, I think so. I’ve seen it around and it has his name, why?” Dean answers, reaching behind him to give his cash, but Jenna doesn’t take it from him, instead just turns scared brown eyes up to him.

“Ross, who have you seen moving around Dmitri?”

“Uh, a blond kid. An Alpha, I think, I don’t know, why?”

“I saw him take a mint before he left, but that’s been on that stool for a while.”

“If you say him take a mint then why…?”

“Um… have you heard of inducers, Ross? You know, heat or rut or whatever inducing drugs? Those that were deemed illegal after marijuana was legalized?”

Dean frowns—of course he knows what inducers are, he’s _been drugged_ by an inducer on the job twice already. But of course Jenna doesn’t know that, so he nods. “What about them?”

“Well, one of the derivatives of the strongest heat inducers comes in the form of mints.” She points at the box in Dean’s hand again. “And if Dmitri’s taken a mint…”

“Then _fuck_!”

Dean throws his money down on the bar, not really caring how much of it there is, and runs—but he’s had a hard time, because _of course_ it’s getting packed—and he fights his way through the gyrating, sweating bodies towards the door because the only thing he can think of is _Cas has been drugged fuck shit fuckity fucking shit Cas Cas Cas_

He shoves people away from him—people who are trying to get him to dance with them and clinging to his neck and _right now he hates his scent_ but he fights anyway, because this isn’t supposed to happen, but fuck it’s happening, and he can’t stop it unless he finds Cas and to find Cas he has to really, really get out of the bar.

He thinks he’s almost broken the door off its hinges when he finally gets out, and the cold air outside is a relief to his senses and his skin—it really was getting too warm inside. And then he is hit by his concerns once again, and he looks around—there’s no Cas. He can’t find Cas.

“Cas?” he calls out, his fingers tightening around the suppressant mints, and he sniffs the air—there are a million scents—the trees, leaves, car fumes, his own, the residuals scents of alcohol… but… there!

He sniffs several more times, trying to pinpoint the exact source, Cas’s location, and he walks forward.

And then the motherfucking wind blew.

“Shit,” he mutters, and he decides, what the hell, and begins running towards the parking lot at the side of the bar, where he is sure Cas would’ve gone to first. He runs there as fast as he can, but when he gets there, it’s empty—well, devoid of life, that is, because the park is full. But he still tries his luck.

“Cas!” he calls again, somewhat frantically, because it’s his job to keep his Handler safe, and for fuck’s sakes why did he drink? He can handle his alcohol fine, but _he can find Cas easier_ if he _hadn’t taken_ alcohol at all.

“Cas!”

No one answers, and he’s breathless as the cold air stabs at his lungs and his drying throat. He runs his hand through his hair, feeling frantic, and he goes back out front, where he had gotten a whiff of Cas’s scent, and began searching the other way.

 

**..--..**

 

Castiel knew there was something a few seconds after he took his mint.

He keeps his eyes pointedly _away_ from Dean, and that slutty little Theta pushing himself up against the Alpha who is _practically_ scenting the kid with the way he _isn’t_ pushing him off.

Castiel sighs, and then, noticing Dean is alone, approaches him, slowly, because he feels warm—the bar is a little too hot for September. He squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden nausea. He can usually tolerate alcohol better than this, but first off he isn’t in a good mood—he’s only a few days to a week away from his Heat—and Dean’s flirting (and that _other Alpha practically groping him earlier_ ) isn’t helping him at all.

He walks towards Dean slowly, but he trips over his own feet— _wow, clumsy_ —and he reaches out, ending up clapping Dean probably a little too violently on the shoulder. Which is good, that got his attention, but Dean jerks, and he seems to get into the defensive for a second before he relaxes and looks over his shoulder.

Only then did Castiel realize how closely he’s leaning against Dean—practically having his own shoulder pressed up against the Alpha’s—but he feels too sick to even be concerned about social norms right now.

“I wanna go home. I’ll wait outside, if that’s alright.” Dean squints a little at him before shrugging, looking forward again towards the bar.

“Yeah, that’s cool, I’ll just pay,” the Alpha answers anyway, and it’s a relief. All Castiel wants to do right now is get out of this bar. He turns to leave, only to be jerked back to facing Dean when he grabs the Omega’s wrist. He’s frowning as he asks, “Are you alright?”

“I—” Something seizes Castiel then, a fear—a sudden, jarring bolt of fear down his spine, but his scent is easily mixed with the rest of the bar, and he wants to tell Dean, wants to ask him for help, to just leave the money and walk with him, but when he opens his mouth, something else comes out. “I’m alright.”

“Okay.”

And Castiel shouldn’t be disappointed—he knows both he and his Host are a little more than tipsy—but he still is as he pulls away from Dean and makes his way outside. He lazily pushes his way to the door, getting there far slower than strictly normal, but when he does get there, someone’s pulling at his arm—away from the parking lot, away from Dean’s car.

“Let me go,” he mumbles, trying to pull his arm free, but he feels heavy, and this person doesn’t smell like Dean, more like… “Motherfucking shit,” he spits out, and then, with the last of his strength, rips his arm out of the Alpha’s hold.

The blond turns, and he’s grinning. “I _told_ you you’d want me by the end of the night, baby.”

“You son of a bitch,” Castiel says, and he squeezes his eyes shut again—feeling sick and nauseated as he sways on his feet. Distantly his mind remembers the mint he’d swallowed a few minutes earlier—“You _drugged_ me? Couldn’t take a fucking ‘no’ as an answer?”

“Nah, you bitches just like to play hard to get. So, we nice guys like to play dirty. Besides you’d end up wanting a knot by the end of your plastered evening anyway.”

“Oh, so you _force_ someone else into taking yours, because you’re too incompetent to impress anybody. Ha. Joke’s on you, fucker.”

“Why?” The blond Alpha sneers, leaning in towards Castiel—and he pulls back, because this Alpha doesn’t smell like _home_ at all. He smells too citrusy and too… too _synthetic_ to comfortable. “Is your mate coming out to get you?”

“Yeah, and he’ll kill you for this, too.”

The Alpha laughs. “Oh, baby, I love it when you threaten me.”

And then Castiel’s being pulled again, and he feels sick, but he just goes with it—he has a gun, and knives, and he’s had physical training. He can get himself out of whatever trouble he just fell into.

All his plans go out the window when he hears it—a whimper. And then he scents another Omega in heat—this time less sickening than his own, because it’s a _natural_ heat.

He is pushed painfully against another fevered body, and he thinks this must be the whimpering Omega in Heat, and he feels angry all of a sudden. He opens his eyes—they’re still outside, good, though in an alley, sort of. Castiel looks at the person he’s holding—she’s young girl, looking scared and crying.

She’s pretty, too—a brunette, with high cheekbones and brown eyes.

“Hi,” he says softly. “What’s your name?”

“S-Sarah,” she whimpers. “Please help, help me.”

“Yes, I will. I’ll help you.”

She whimpers again, burying her face against his neck, and he looks up, glaring at the person standing over the both of them. There are three other Alphas around, all of them looking at him and Sarah hungrily, lustfully, and even in the night, with only one streetlight at the end of the alley and the stars and the moon as sources of illumination, Castiel can’t mistake the disgusting bulges of interest in their pants.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Sarah, I want you to pull away, okay?”

“No!” Sarah says, clutching at him even stronger. “No, no, no, please, please!”

“Just for a little.” He reaches up and eases her finger’s off of his shirt, but at that exact moment someone grabs her around the waist and drags her away from him. She kicks out in protest, almost nicking Castiel in the face— _wow, she’s feisty, keep fighting, Sarah_ —and twists around.

“Come on, little bitch, let’s have a look at your gifts,” the Alpha leers, and then something glints—a knife. Castiel hears the rip of fabric, and Sarah screams, and then her voice is suddenly muffled as someone covers her mouth.

“You, too,” the blond Alpha from the bar whispers at Castiel’s ear, and he jumps, twisting around just in time, grabbing the knife from his boot and swinging. But he’s in a fever now—his mind is hazy and his wrist is throbbing and—oh _god_ —he can feel slick sliding from his hole and _fuuuuuck_ this isn’t good.

But he ends up nicking the Alpha anyway—judging by his outraged yell and the shove Castiel gets. “Sarah!” he calls. “Keep fighting!”

And then he hears it, just as someone mounts his waist, and he feels fingers deftly working his belt.

“Cas!”

He opens his eyes and breathes in—managing to scream just before something covers his whole face.

“DEAN!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally decided to get to fixing the whole story. You may have noticed the lesser number of chapters. And yeah, here you guys go.
> 
> And gosh, I was reading through the past two or three chapters and I'm cracking up at the senseless sentences I've made (because they're so _wrong_ ) and I'm sorry you had to read that guys.
> 
> Maybe I shouldn't write in the afternoon. My brain goes haywire then.
> 
> And this work is still unbeta'ed, so I'm sorry for that T_T I'm editing the chapters as I update, and I will try to reupload the better versions, and I'm asking someone to beta for me, too. So.
> 
> Yeah. Thanks for reading :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We have to break your fever, assbutt, now get out of bed.”

Though outside, he’s quiet, he’s calm, on the inside, he’s a raging storm of emotions—of _concern_ , _fear_ , _anger_. His head is an endless echo of “Cas” and “holy _shit_ ” and “oh god please no”, making him feel even worse than he already does—if that’s possible.

As he runs, as fast as his slightly inebriated gait can go, towards where Cas—and _another_ Omega in heat—is, he slowly feels the slow haze alcohol had filmed his brain in trickle and fade until he’s all alert again.

His senses seems to have heightened sevenfold—he can feel the soft caress of cold wind against his cheeks as he ran, hear the whimpers and grunts and hisses of shifting fabric against skin, taste the scent of two Omegas in heat—slightly the same, yet different in the ways it affects him: one makes him _angry_ and the other makes him _hungry_ —and, strangest of all, he can _see_ in the dim light of the alley, clear as day, as if he was looking at a highly illuminated image.

He curled his hand as tightly as possible—feeling the tendons pop and his knuckles lock before swinging.

His first easily connects with the jaw of the first Alpha that is stupid enough to confront him head-on, sending the guy flying to his right and hitting the wall beside him with a sickening crunch. He can hear whimpers and grunts, louder this time, letting him know he’s closer, and then he’s running again—grabbing the Alpha who’s mounted a half-naked young girl by the scruff of his collar and pulling him off of her.

The Alpha feels slightly pleased at the choked sound coming from the guy, raising him over his head before pulling him down to the ground. And then he’s taking his jacket off and dropping it carelessly to blanket over the whimpering Omega.

“Call the police,” he tells her, and she nods before scampering away, her back hitting the closest cement wall as she clutches at his jacket closer to her body. Dean doesn’t even notice how cold the air is—all he can see is Cas, struggling (but easily flipping his and another guy’s positions on the ground) before his attention is taken by the silver glint of a knife against the light.

He growls, smelling the sickening tinge of fear from an Alpha in the air, but the man still swings the knife anyway—which is probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

 _Will ever do,_ he thinks soundly, because he knows he might end up killing someone tonight.

He ducks quickly, but the knife catches his sleeve—and gets stuck. He pulls his wrist in, pulling his elbow out, and the stupid guy doesn’t let the knife go, following it closer to Dean’s body, giving Dean the advantage and ability to use his own momentum to pull him closer while driving his forearm up against the other Alpha’s throat.

And then he twists around, grabbing the man’s arm, before pulling his whole body weight and center of gravity up and above him and body slamming him right before his shoes. He feels victorious—because _show me an Alpha who_ doesn’t _feel victorious after something like that_ —but he doesn’t dwell on it any longer than necessary, turning around quickly to look on Cas.

He’s panting, on his knees, the blond Alpha who’d flirted with him back inside the bar unconscious in front of him. He breathes hard—and even from Dean’s vantage point he can see the deep flush staining his usually pale cheeks.

Slowly, cautiously, because Cas still has a knife and he’s feeling vulnerable, Dean approaches; making sure to crouch so he doesn’t startle the Omega. “Cas?” he says softly, reaching a hand out towards the Omega’s face when he looks up, his eyes dark in the lack of light in the alley.

His eyes widen when he sees Dean—and Dean thinks something else is wrong before Cas shakes his head and talks.

“Sarah,” he breathes, but reaches up a shaky hand towards Dean’s outstretched one anyway. “Is Sarah okay?”

Dean grabs his hands and slowly pulls him closer, helping him up to his feet. “Yeah, Sarah’s okay. Are you? How are you feeling?”

“Hot.” Dean knows, if there was light, he’d see Cas’s _‘are you kidding me_ ’ face and he chuckles, softly at first, before his brain decides that it’s a funny thing and he begins laughing.

The mind is a douchebag like that—it’s useless when you panic, when you’re scared; supplies you with even more hormones of fear when you’re in danger; but after that, after everything, once you’ve gotten over all that shit, everything’s funny.

Cas leans against Dean heavily, and the Alpha wraps an arm around his Handler’s waist as they approach the other Omega, who is now looking up at them, one hand shakily wrapped around a still glowing cell phone.

“Sarah?” Dean says, raising his free hand to show that he’s harmless. Cas slowly leans away from him then, and Dean drops his arms before slowly crouching to look at Sarah in the eye. “Hey, have you called the police?”

Sarah nods mutely, wide eyes trained on Dean’s, bottom lip stuck under her teeth.

“Can you stand?”

She pauses, thinks a bit, and shakes her head.

“Okay, I’m going to carry you to the front of the bar, alright? Are you okay with that? ‘Coz my partner’s been drugged, too.”

He can feel Cas’s hand lightly on his shoulder, there to support half of the weight of the fevered man. And then Sarah nods, raising her arms towards Dean. The Alpha moves slowly but methodologically, making sure not to scare the girl more but still keeping her informed he has his wits in a firm grip. And then he’s standing up, Sarah cradled bridal-style in his arms, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her nose stuck against the pulse by his throat.

Dean looks at Cas then, who is glowering at his feet, and he slowly reaches out to Cas with one of his hands. He supports Sara’s back with his upper arm, his hand wrapping tightly around Castiel’s. And then he’s walking all three of them to the front of the bar.

They get there just a minute or two before the police and an ambulance come blaring, with Jenna looking relieved and scared at the same time, her hand clutching a phone just as Sarah was a few moments earlier.

Dean lets Sarah down, but the girl doesn’t leave his or Cas’s side. Three EMTs come around to check on the help the two Omegas while Dean directs the police officers to the alley where the whole thing happened.

 

A few minutes later, Sarah is wrapped in a shock blanket like Cas on the ambulance truck with Dean sitting on the ground, his head rested back against Cas’s knee. They’ve all been given water—a bruise Dean hasn’t noticed in the haze of adrenaline cleaned and dabbed with antiseptic before they were allowed to rest.

“Mr. Jacobs?” someone calls, speaking cautiously.

Dean reaches an arm up and rests it across Sarah’s lap, his thumb stroking her farther knee when he feels her tense against her side. “Relax, Sarah.” And then he straightens up, pushing his head up against Cas’s palm in his hair, nodding at the sheriff who’s come to talk to him. “Ross Jacobs.”

The sheriff—a Beta, thank fuck—approaches slowly, crouching, too, stopping by Dean’s ankle, which is neither too close nor too far. “Good evening, Mr. Jacobs—”

“Ross,” Dean corrects, smiling lightly.

“ _Ross_ ,” she corrects, “I’m Jody Mills, sheriff, if that isn’t obvious enough. Do you mind telling us your version of events?”

“Can I do it here?” he asks, gesturing at Cas and Sarah with his free hand. “I mean, if it won’t break some protocol code or something.”

“No, that’s okay. You’re more needed here than in the patrol car.”

“Yeah, alright. We were at the bar,” Dean begins, glancing at Cas’s lap before training his eyes on Jody Mills again, “and Dmitri here wanted to go. But before that—blondie, whatever his name is—”

“Everett Mason,” the sheriff supplies, and Sarah whimpers at the name, leaning over Dean to clutch at Cas’s arm. “Are you okay, Sarah?”

“H-Him,” she says weakly. “But, Ross’s story…”

Dean looks at Sarah for a second before looking back at the sheriff. “Yeah, anyway, _Everett Mason_ —” he can’t help the spite in his voice “—was… _flirting_ with Dmitri, back in the bar. I think he changed the suppressant mints in his pocket with _inducing_ mint.” He checks his pocket, giving Cas the box, as Cas hands the drug one to Sheriff Mills. “I was waiting for Sonny or Jenna so I can pay, but then I saw Dmitri’s box.

“And then I ran outside.” He shrugs, looking away from Jody to the patrol car a few meters away from them, where he can see a bruised face glowering over at him. “Did what my instincts to told me to… you know, protect. Yeah.”

Sheriff Mills looks at him a few more minutes before sighing and sitting on the ground, resting her elbows against her drawn up knees. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Cas answers softly, his eyes trained on Dean’s head. “Ross is here helping me move in.”

“Well then, _this_ is one nice way to welcome someone new.”

Cas chuckles darkly. “I wanna move away again, Ross,” he says softly—and wow, this is the best getaway they can think of. No suspicions if he moves again, because he’s been traumatized. Ten points to Cas.

“It’ll take us about another month,” Dean answers, going with the charade, looking up at Cas as if confirming he wanted this.

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t _care_ , Ross. Everywhere I go this happens. I just… I don’t know. I want to go _home_.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Back to Russia?”

Cas looks at him in the eye and _glares_. “Austria, fucker.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, well, _more_ than a month then. You’ll need to reestablish your citizenship. Oh, and, you know, actually take your records from mother Russia?”

Cas hits him upside the head—and _ow_ even with a fever he has a good arm. “I _knew_ I never should’ve told you of my ancestry, you fucking racist.”

Jody raises both hands, as Sarah laughs at them softly. “Alright, alright, no more jokes, Ross. Sarah, who’s coming to get you?”

“My dad,” Sarah answers, and she takes a deep breath. “Can I go as soon as he’s here?”

“Yes, of course, honey. Do you need Ross and Dmitri to stay here with you?”

She quiet for a beat before she says her soft ascent.

“Alright. Well, thank you both for helping one of our kids, and Dmitri, I’m so sorry this is how you were welcomed. Take care, wherever you go next.”

She gets up and looks at the three of them one last time before turning to leave.

Dean smiles up at her, feeling tiredness slip through his limbs as the night goes on. He checks his watch, sighing dejectedly when he sees it’s half an hour to midnight, rubbing his face with his hand before resting it against Cas’s thigh again.

“Are you really going to leave?” Sarah asks quietly, her hand wrapping around Dean’s on her knee. “I mean, I understand. And. Thanks, to you two. Really. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Cas says, and even without looking Dean can hear the smile in Cas’s tone. “I was starting to like this place.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry you had to go through that, too.”

The laugh she gives is short and surprisingly dark, causing Dean to pause from rubbing her knee—and to be honest his thumb is slowly growing raw from the rough denim—to look up at her.

“The law’s a liar, you know,” she says, looking away from both Cas and Dean. “It doesn’t matter how severe the consequences of breaking it will be, how it tries to uphold fairness, as long as society stands and doesn’t change _its_ bigoted thought pattern we’ll always be beneath everybody else.

“Just like teenagers, you know. Adults call us reckless and stupid and they say we have no idea what we’re doing with our lives, and to them that means we need people to dictate every little freaking thing. When, if you think about it, most teenagers actually have the bigger person, the wider perspective in most things in life. Because _they’re_ not governed by prejudice, they’re lead by morals and emotions and reality.” She sniffs, and wipes a quick tear away from her cheek. “It’s _unfair_. We fight and we work so hard every day and still, what do we end up being? _Bitches. Playthings_.

“God, I’m so sorry.”

She covers her face with both of her hands then, sobbing against her palms as Cas leans over Dean’s head this time to wrap an arm around her shoulder. Dean, being unable to get in between them, simply rests his chin on her thigh, trying to give the best imitation of comfort he can give without showing it as molestation.

After all, she and Cas still _are_ in Heat.

“What about Everett Mason?” Dean asks, because he’s curious, but he’s secretly hoping he doesn’t scare Sarah too badly with the question, too. “Is he…?”

“I used to go out with him,” Sarah answers, her voice shaky as she sniffles. “But I wouldn’t put out. I wanted to get _married_ before I… you know, whatever Alphas like to do. He… he got mad. We broke up, but he’s been trying to…”

“That fucking—”

“Ross,” Cas says softly, stopping Dean mid-growl. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”

Dean doesn’t hear or see an answer, so he hopes whatever Cas is doing is working.

An EMT joins them then, asking Sarah and Cas if they need anything at all, and then instructing Dean to keep Cas hydrated and fed in the next couple of days.

They leave only when Sarah’s father comes to pick her up, Cas’s fever skyrocketing again with Dean having to strap him on the car seat with the seatbelt to keep the guy from scrambling up his lap while he’s driving. He keeps all the windows up, regardless of how badly it affects _him_ , because at least _he_ trusts himself not to take advantage of Cas but fearing another Alpha—or a Beta—will follow Cas’s scent to the house and who the hell knows what’ll happen then.

He drags Cas up the stairs, tucking him into the bed (hissing, “Don’t get out and _wait for me,_ got that?” to which the Omega answered, “ _Whatever_ , Dean” and pushed his face away) and calls the only person he knows who has _any_ idea how to take care of an Omega in Heat. Well, who _isn’t_ your mate, but you know.

“Pam,” he says, once someone’s picked up.

“I’m sorry, this is?”

“Who’re you? Dean Winchester, Code 0127, I’m calling for an emergency. I need to talk to Doctor Barnes.”

“I’m Doctor Barnes’s secretary, Samandriel Philippe. I’ll try to get a hold of Dr. Barnes as soon as possible, Mr. Winchester.”

“Alfie,” Dean breathes, because that’s the only name he can register right now, “can you tell me if I can call Dr. Barnes using her personal phone?”

“Sir—”

“I’m _on field_ , and my Handler’s been drugged. _Can I contact Dr. Barnes using her personal phone_?”

 _Wow, dick wad, scary_ , Dean Jr. says, sticking his tongue out for good measure.

“Yes sir,” the kid answers, quietly, more subdued, and Dean fears he’s scared the kid. But hell, he needs Pam _now_ , not after they’ve found her.

He hangs up with a few words of gratitude and calls Pamela up using her personal phone—which she answers after seven rings.

“Winchester,” she greets, her tone slightly amused and condescending, as it always was. “To what do I owe this call?”

“How do I break a Heat fever?” he asks immediately, peeking at Cas, who has curled up on the bed. Dean walks away, his head getting muddled slightly by the Omega’s scent, and he asks the question again—because Pamela seems not to have heard or something. “Pam?”

“What did you do?”

“I’ll explain in my report on Sunday,” he says flatly. “Pamela. Straight to the point, please? Now.”

 

“Cas, wake up,” Dean says softly, shaking his Handler’s shoulders. He’s wearing olfactory jammers, which are highly uncomfortable but are still helpful, as he rips the comforter off of Cas’s body. “Cas, you gotta get up.”

Cas whines, pushing his hands where he’s gripped him on the upper arms. “Go _away_ Dean,” he groans. “Please.”

“We have to break your fever, assbutt, now get out of bed.”

“Noooooo.” And then he lays flat on his back, his breathing hard, pupils dilated so far that there’s only a sliver of blue left ringing the black. “You smell good,” he mutters, reaching up and clamping his hand on the back to Dean’s neck. “Deaaaan,” he groans again, when the Alpha uses their posture to wrap his arms around the Omega’s waist and pull him to sit up.

“You know, you’re cuter when you’re angry,” Dean mutters as he struggles to unbutton Cas’s shirt, with the guy forcibly shoving his face against his neck. Even with the jammer doing its job of confusing his sense of smell, a sliver of arousal rises in Dean—because his body is reacting to the fevered rush of Cas trying to climb him.

And finally Cas is out of his shirt—which isn’t really a good thing, but at least it’ll help, if Dean can get to taking his pants off too. Cas, the little shit, is trying his best to get Dean to take off his clothes, too, but Dean is stronger and he pushes Cas’s hands off.

“Cas, let’s make a deal,” Dean says, resigned to his fate of stripping this nice piece of mate material but to never really get a taste. “I’ll get you naked, you can cling onto me all you want, alright?”

But Cas isn’t listening—instead just tightening the hold he has around Dean’s shoulders and _nuzzling_ at Dean’s pulse, like Dean had done during their ride to this god-forsaken town, and Dean fumbles about himself to get Cas naked.

Once the buttons and fly are open, though, Cas gracefully shimmies out of his pants—making Dean gulp nervously as he thinks of the least sexy shit he can think of to keep from getting turned on because, as Pamela said, “Your scent when you’re turned on is highly detrimental to the fever. It’s gonna cause the kid’s temperature to rise even higher.”

So he thinks of Bobby’s or Rufus’s foot, itching with athlete’s foot, and then he’s fighting not to puke as he wraps his arms around Cas’s waist and pulls him towards the shower. He’d turned the dial down to the proper temperature already—and he knows he’s going to regret his decision but he has to help Cas somehow.

He turns it on, waiting for two seconds before hauling Cas’s—honestly cutely clingy—ass in, shifting him so he’s facing the water, fighting to pin his arms between his torso and the Alpha’s own. Cas fights for the first few moments, and then he relaxes, facing up and opening his mouth, as if he’s wants to swallow the water down.

Which, of course, he does. His body is excreting too much fluid and he needs to be fed and hydrated but he has to stay under cool water for two minutes.

After Dean’s watch signals two minutes are over (because he had to make sure he was exact) he drags Cas out of the shower, now pliant and content with just nuzzling against the underside of Dean’s jaw, not even protesting when Dean pulls away and towels him dry.

After dressing him in the most comfortable pajama pants and shirt Dean can find he plops his Handler down on his couch—which, in hindsight, is a bad idea because _who’ll get to sleep now_ , but who cares—and takes his own wet clothes off, towel-drying his torso and legs before jumping into a pair of shorts.

And then he runs downstairs—plopping the microwaveable soup can into the microwave and running back upstairs with a bottle of water, dropping it on top of Cas’s head, and handing him two tablets of paracetamol.

“I don’t drink tablets, Dean,” Cas mutters petulantly, but chugs his water anyway.

“It’ll help with the headache,” Dean answers, ruffling Cas’s hair—and wiping it surreptitiously against the couch because Cas is sweating again—before running downstairs, upending the can into a glob on a bowl ( at least it’s steaming) and grabbing a spoon before running back upstairs to feed Cas.

Surprisingly he doesn’t spill a tiny bit of the thing.

Feeding Cas soup proves to be harder than anything else he’d done tonight. Coupled with the fact that it’s already morning, and they aren’t asleep yet, Cas’s grumpy disposition just serves to irritate Dean—never mind that he finds Cas’s hard-headedness a little endearing.

“ _Cas_ , finish you soup, and go to sleep,” Dean had ended up growling, lacing his voice with a little bit of his will—just enough to have Cas follow without a question, but not enough to smother the Omega and oppress him.

Cas blanches, and Dean balks, but he sighs in relief when Cas starts eating quietly and finishes his soup in record time, handing his bowl back silently and sitting with his palms on his lap, his head bowed and tilted to one side, showing Dean a column of neck that makes the Alpha within him growl. Cas is doing the opposite of what he’s been doing the whole time they’ve known each other—he’s _submitting_ to Dean, and it makes him angry.

Because this isn’t _Cas_ , this is a drugged up Omega in Heat who doesn’t want to fight.

He sighs tiredly, chucking his Handler under the chin to make him lift his head up before wrapping his arms around the smaller man, lifting the both of them off the couch and making it to the bed, gently laying Cas down before following after. Once he’s settled, Cas curls half on top of him—shoving his nose against the Alpha’s pulse and sighing.

Dean, while clenching his fists so hard he can feel the blunt nails biting against his palm, squeezes his eyes shut and pretends he _can’t_ feel Cas rubbing his erection sleepily against his thigh.

**..--..**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of schedule. Not like I have a schedule, really, but I usually update during the weekend, but we're going to be busy planning and attending several family events and then we're seeing our grandfather's brother back to the Netherlands and I just want to post this chapter before I forget completely.
> 
> Anyway, here's a page on my [ Tumblr ](http://peur-van-dunkelheit.tumblr.com/tagged/spirals) dedicated solely to this AU (I will post everything I need to and whatever you ask me to on there I _swear_ . And I hoped you enjoyed this chapter. I had a little fun with this one.
> 
> PS. I changed the rating because I'm scared the next few chapters will end up smutty (because I'm older now that I'm posting this story and I can actually write porn without fear of anyone knowing)
> 
> Oh, and is anyone willing to help beta-read my story? :) I feel highly incompetent whenever I reread some of my chapters and find these little mistakes. Huehuehue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel turns his head and rubs his nose against Dean’s, sighing softly. Feeling blindly with our hands, he mentally agrees.

Castiel wakes up and feels _horrible_. There’s an itch and a pain inside of him that he can’t scratch—he knows he can’t—whatever the hell he feels, because he’s in Heat.

But there’s a physical itch, too—that’s something he can fully solve. He scratches at his wrist, and it helps, before an even more uncomfortable itch starts. He starts to violently rub the inside of his wrist with his blunt nails, grunting in frustration when that seems to be ineffective.

He freezes when something— _someone_ —moves beside him. How could he not have noticed he was sleeping _next to a warm body… who smells like…_

“Cas?”

Castiel jerks, but his body reacts differently. He whines, without his consent, as he feels slick slip between his cheeks. He is slowly growing more and more aware of his and Dean’s body—him, his ankles crossed, pinning one of Dean’s own between them, his erection rubbing _just right_ against Dean’s thighs; the Alpha, on his back, looking at him while holding one of his hands.

In the dim light of—early morning?—he can almost swear that Dean’s eyes are glowing gold. He blinks.

He remembers something, from earlier—watching Dean move fluidly while still protecting himself; watching him swing those Alphas like they weighed nothing at all; seeing a pair of glowing amber eyes trained on him for a second before it’s just _Dean_ staring at him with wide, scared eyes.

“Cas, stop scratching your wrist!” Dean scolds, and Castiel looks at the arms he’s holding. He can feel it throbbing, but it’s still itchy, but he can feel something oozing out of it and then he can smell his own _blood_ —

“ _Castiel_.”

Castiel freezes again, dropping his head on Dean’s shoulder, his arm dropping with a thump on Dean’s chest. This is only the second time Dean’s used his will on Castiel on purpose, but both of those times were to help him. His body doesn’t fight Dean _at all_ when he rolls over on top of the Omega, opting instead to raise his chin and submit. Usually when an Alpha uses will on Castiel he _fights_ , immediately attacks them without even thinking whether they’re friend or foe.

But Dean… Dean makes him act different.

“Cas,” Dean mutters softly, and Castiel can smell and feel Dean’s arousal, making him writhe— _uselessly_ —under Dean’s body. He moans a little when he feels Dean nosing at his neck.

“Dean,” he moans, and, had he been in the right mind, he’d feel ashamed. But all shame’s out the window now—he wants _Dean_. “Dean, please.”

“Shh,” Dean answers, pressing his cool lips on Castiel’s overheated neck. He feels like his whole body heats up even more at the touch, and he bucks his hips—his erection colliding deliciously against Dean’s own.

“Oh god,” he breathes, closing his eyes as he rubs his hips up against Dean, feeling his own mating oils flow out of his body to possibly _entice_ Dean into having him. “Dean, _Dean_ , please, please, please!”

Dean doesn’t answer, neither does he move, allowing Castiel to simply hump up against him. He feels hot, too hot, constricted far too much by his clothes, and he dislodges Dean’s hold against his arms to try to get his clothes off. But, when he tries pulling the fabric up, Dean is there—stopping his hands.

“Dean,” Castiel whines, wanting nothing more but skin-on-skin contact, but Dean just chuckles and pulls his hands up over his head. He moans, bucking up more aggressively, Dean an unmoving weight on top of him.

“This is easier than I thought,” Dean mutters almost absently, and Castiel opens his eyes, seeing Dean’s green eyes trained on him. There is something different about his eyes, something… ethereal. But maybe that’s the Heat talking.

Eyes don’t really _glow_ , do they? At least, they do in comic books and TV shows and that usually means something dangerous lurking in the dark but it’s _Dean_ and Dean is _safe_ , even with his scary glowing eyes and.

Castiel sniffs, and then inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of Dean’s arousal blending in perfectly with his own, enjoying the feel of Dean’s heart beating like a hammer against his own chest. He tries to fight Dean, tries to get a point across, but then his mind is short circuiting.

“Dean,” he says, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head at the feeling of Dean’s hand on his cock. Dean starts stroking, soft caresses at first, just teasing, until Castiel bucks up against his hand, and Dean starts jacking him off in earnest.

Castiel can feel Dean’s own cock hard and pressed against his thigh, and he moans, wanting Dean _inside_ of him and—the only sober thought left in his mind before he comes is, _I want Dean to mate me_.

His Heat calms to a dull minimum during those few pressure minutes it takes his body to refract, and he enjoys Dean breathing hard against his neck, softly kissing and licking, scenting Castiel as his own in a base way. Castiel takes a deep breath, feeling somber, wanting nothing but to forget the last thought in his Heat-muddled mind before it ends up being the only thing he can think about.

Castiel suppresses a whimper of protest when Dean rolls off of him, leaning up on his elbow. He still has an arm around Castiel, his thumb absently rubbing gentle circles on the Omega’s hip. Castiel can feel his own slick and come cooling in his pants— _yuck_ —but his oversensitive skin finds it comfortable, if he didn’t think what it _was_.

“You gonna be okay?” Dean asks softly, and Castiel looks at him. He looks tired, his eyes not glowing anymore—if they ever really did. His jaw is set, and it’s obvious he’s trying to keep himself in check.

Castiel smiles at him. “For a few minutes,” he whispers, moving closer to the Alpha, tucking his head against Dean’s chest. “You _do_ know you broke my fever.”

“I did?” Dean asks, like he really can’t believe it.

“Yeah,” he answers, chuckling softly and reaching up, tangling his fingers in the Alpha’s short hair, like he’s wanted ever since he saw him running down that alley, fighting those god-forsaken Alphas. “So I have a clear mind. As clear as Heat goes, at least.” He sighs.

He feels Dean tense, and then relax, his arm coming up around his back to clamp on the back of his neck. Dean kisses his temple, and Castiel flushes—feeling a twitch of arousal in his chest. “Cas—”

“You don’t have to,” Castiel interrupts. He wants to pull away, right now, but he can’t get enough motivation. Dean feels good. He’s warm. He’s safe. He’s _mate_.

“No, Cas, listen—”

“Dean—”

Castiel gasps at the roughness by which Dean pulls his head and kisses him, allowing entrance as Dean licks his way into the cavern of the Omega’s mouth. He moans at Dean’s taste—like mint and rain and something sweet. They’re both gasping for air when Dean finally pulls away.

“Will you shut up and _listen_ now?” Dean growls, but he doesn’t put will behind it—at least, not that Castiel feels, but he nods anyway. Dean sighs, rubbing his hand on the hair at the back of Castiel’s head, soothing him just so. “Look, Cas I—” he stops, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “I never expected to _like_ having a Handler—much less you, because you’re the _rumored_ Castiel Novak—”

“Speak for yourself,” Castiel mutters. Dean ignores him.

“—but I do. I do like having you as a Handler—and I like _you_ in general. Look, I’m not good with words, but. I’m going blindly with these, alright? Feeling with hands. I like _you_ , Cas, you… you’re gorgeous and funny and you’re smart as hell, too. And you don’t take me for my bullshit, you call me down, and you _really_ help. God, I sound like a girl, don’t I?”

“But?”

“But. I am not going to _mate_ you _now_ , Cas, not when I’m trying to rescue my little brother.”

That shushes them both effectively. Castiel knew he should be _thinking_ , but there’s a thick blanket suppressing all brain activity and he feels tired from coming and he wants to sleep. He closes his eyes, determined to only rest them as he thinks, but he slips into oblivion anyway.

He feels the rumble of Dean’s laugh against his chest before the press of lips against his forehead.

“Go to sleep, Cas.”

 

The next time Castiel wakes he feels like he’s in the desert. And he’s been trained with extreme weather simulations for this job. He gasps, opening his eyes, his hand reaching for something he doesn’t know. The sheets around him are blessedly cool, and he flips over, moaning as the fabric of his clothes rub against his sensitive skin.

His mind tells him there’s _something_ missing, something important. There’s something he isn’t thinking about properly but he isn’t even really thinking properly. He’s just thankful for the cool sheets and the cool breeze coming from an air conditioner or something.

It sure smelled like treated air.

He buried his face deeper into the pillow under his head—breathing in the soothing scent of Alpha still clinging to the fabric. Dean’s face pops into his mind and he sighs, turning his head happily so he can breathe properly. And then he pushes himself up, feeling panicked, and scared, and when he feels something against his wrist, he thinks he might have been compromised—but no.

His wrist is wrapped with white bandages, stained with stripes of brown. He blinks, not really remembering anything from last night, but his subconscious lets him know that if he tries hard enough, he can. But really, all he can think of is _Dean_ and his Heat and… he didn’t change last night, did he?

Castiel looks down at his pants and finds them new, clean—at least, in front. He can feel the cooling slick at the back against his rear and he moans because _where the fuck is Dean_?

The door opens then, and Castiel looks up warily, absently reminded of where the closest weapons are (the knife under the pillow and the guns in either nightstand drawer), but he relaxes when it’s just Dean, carrying closer a bowl that smells delicious but feels highly sickening. He groans and drops on his face, rolling over to his back and pulling the comforter up to his head regardless of how warm under he got.

He hears Dean chuckle and he feels like throwing something at the shithead when the comforter gets tugged away.

“Hey,” Dean greets, smiling softly down at him. He feels the bed dip where Dean has taken a seat, and he wants to smile, but really. Dean smells _great_. He may not be suffering from the haze of a fever, but he sure still is suffering under the haze of a fucking Heat.

Heh, fucking.

He’d love for Dean to do that right now.

“Cas,” Dean says, tapping his cheek, and Castiel looks at him, in those soft, multi-colored eyes he can drown in forever. Sappy, Castiel.

“Your eyes glowed gold,” Castiel mutters, moaning when Dean pulls him up to sit, pushing him to lean against the headboard. Dean looks at him with furrowed brows, seeming confused, but Castiel points at Dean’s eyes. “Last night. This morning? When you were fighting, whenever that was. Your eyes, they glowed gold.” Castiel giggled. “They were pretty.”

“Oh,” Dean says, frowning. “Not what I expected, but I thought you said you didn’t have a fever?”

“I don’t!” Castiel answers, more venomously than he had intended. “Deaaaaan. Sleep with me?”

He had expected Dean to look at him with either lust or disgust, but, to his surprise—and really, Dean has proven him wrong on many occasions, he shouldn’t be surprised anymore—Dean simply _laughs_.

“Alright, Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel brightens up at the thought of him agreeing, but Dean’s face suggests otherwise. “I’m not sleeping with you. Remember what I said last night?”

Castiel frowns, because he doesn’t want to remember Dean’s excuse for not wanting to sleep with him, but without his permission he remembers—a soft-spoken conversation between an aroused Alpha and an Omega in Heat.

He feels himself blanch at what he had learned of Dean’s family, and for a few seconds he feels like he wasn’t in Heat at all—until Dean _touches_ him of course, and it hits him with a wave that has him writhing on the bed.

“Oh god,” Castiel breathes as he watches Dean look down to his pants, no doubt scenting in the air the Omega’s slick. “Oh _fuck_ I’m so sorry.”

 _Adam_ , he thinks quickly, but all of his thought power is slowly being pushed for the _need_ to have an Alpha right this instant. _Adam Milligan is… is Dean’s… yes, I’m Dean’s. Oh god please please please._

Castiel startles at the feeling of something warm against his lip. He opens his eyes, his mouth opening involuntarily at the same time, and something thick and salty drops into his mouth—he closes his eyes and swallows.

“Cream soup,” Dean whispers. “Cas, I’m sorry, okay? I called Pam and she said you _can’t_ take any more drugs other than something to help your headache. Shit, I want to help you. I _want_ you. So bad. But, not now, alright? Maybe once this is all over. Maybe during your next natural Heat.”

Castiel knows getting drugged up has messed with his biorhythm—his Heats came on the third month—but he chuckles humorlessly while swallowing another spoonful of the heavenly yet sickening substance that is cream soup. “That’s next week,” he says weakly, and then another spoonful is fed to him, and he swallows before talking.  “But that’s been fucked now.”

“Hey,” Dean says, imploring him to look up. “I’ll help you best that I could, alright?”

“You _are_ ,” Castiel mutters, this time putting the whole head of the spoon into his mouth and letting it slip out when Dean pulls it. “And thanks. And this has fucked up our plans for tonight, hasn’t it?”

Dean is silent.

Castiel squints, but he is distracted by another serving of soup so he doesn’t ask.

It is when the bowl is halfway empty when Dean decides to speak again.

“No,” he says, sounding determined and confident as he looks Castiel in the eye. “I’m sorry Cas, but I’m going. You have to stay here. I’ll get Zachariah, get him to talk, and hopefully be back before first light.”

Castiel furrows his brow in confusion. _“Back_?”

Dean’s answering smile is sharp and dark, and, had Castiel not been so deeply enamored with the Alpha, he knows he’d be scared. Shitting bricks kind of scared. “Where do you think I’ve been last week, Cas?” he asks, his voice low and laced with something… dangerous. Castiel isn’t sure if the spike of arousal he feels is from his Heat or some fucked up sense of sexual drive.

He’d be joking about it if he wasn’t so _screwed_ at this instant. Logically he knows Dean won’t hurt him, not in any physical or permanent way. At the worst Dean will just hurt his sense of stability in himself, like he’d been doing in the past, but his _instincts_ are telling him that this is an _Alpha_ with a base intention.

“Have you ever even thought about it?” Dean asks again, prodding Castiel’s lip with the spoon. Castiel looks up and meets Dean’s eyes, seeing—and this time he’s _certain_ of it—the specks of what he had originally thought was heterochromatic spots, some defect in his genes or in the pigmentation in his eyes, but now he isn’t so sure, because they’re _glowing_.

“Have you?” Dean continues, forcing Castiel back into the present, and he ignores Dean’s eyes for the moment. “About what Seraph wants me to do, to whoever we’re supposed to nab. I’m sure you’ve heard, Alistair isn’t one for being secretive. Have you thought about it?”

“I,” Castiel begins, unsure whether Dean was just baiting him, but what the hell. “I have. And I suspect you’ll be taking Zachariah Adler to the place you’ve been preparing for this particular part of the job.”

Dean’s answering grin is wolfish and, to be honest, paired with those glowing eyes, scary. “That’s my boy.” Castiel feels faintly insulted by the endearment (was it even an endearment, what the fuck) but Dean’s face quickly sobers up. “I’d rather have you here, Cas, than with me at the shack.”

This is the first time they’ve ever really directly discussed Dean’s supposed expertise in Seraph, and Castiel regrets it’s in these terms—when he’s strung out by Heat and Dean is busy trying to keep him alive and distracted enough that he doesn’t feel any pressing need to hump against any part of the Alpha’s body.

“Okay,” Castiel says quietly, and surprisingly, he doesn’t feel abject to submitting to Dean’s suggestion—he actually _likes_ it and _agrees_ with it because if he was going to be honest he didn’t want to be part of that, either.

It’s unfair, not just to himself but to Dean, too, and he’s secretly glad he’s been drugged. No matter how _fucked_ that makes him, how _selfish_ , he just really doesn’t want to be mixed up with the dirty part of the work.

In the past he’s been _cause_ for many people’s deaths, but he’s never really been directly involved in the ending of their lives. Being just bait—even back when he was younger, _before_ he joined Seraph, when he was trying to survive at the same time stay in the good graces of Collectors and other criminals so he didn’t become one of their next victims—didn’t make him feel guilty at all. It helps him sleep at night thinking that it was _their_ choice to follow him, to trust him, and he didn’t push them into anything they didn’t want to get into.

He only has the blood of one man on his hands, and he is reluctant to ever let that number go up. Ever. Even if that meant he’d had to turn his head—or his entire body—from his Host sadistically dragging out the agony of their victims.

Because really, he _isn’t_ responsible, right? He’s okay, he’s innocent.

Killing that slimy, sick bastard was a means to an end.

The thought of that filthy excuse of a man brings a shudder down Castiel’s back, and he begins rocking back and forth, feeling comfort in the heat that Dean’s body emits, forgetting in an instant that this was something he had been scared of for a few moments. That man—or his brother, or his syndicate, or Castiel’s past, really—has never even crossed his mind in the ten years he’d been off of it and now the fears of Castiel’s past and childhood are back—and it’s all because of Dean.

So maybe he really is fucked up when he leans against Dean’s body when the Alpha covers him with his arms. Dean feels _safe_ , and he’s sure that the past will never—can never—come back to physically haunt him again, but emotionally and mentally, he’s still incapacitated.

Castiel’s body breaks out in sweat and desire at the sudden onslaught of emotions and thoughts. He _knows_ he’s far better than what had been, and he can survive this fucking thing. He’d been through worse. Doesn’t help that Dean’s the most _wonderfully_ scenting Alpha _ever_ , though.

“Dean,” he moans, mouthing at the Alpha’s neck, and he feels Dean tense under him.

“Shit, Cas,” he says, and he sounds _amused_ for some fucking reason. “I don’t know if it’s a hormone thing with the Heat, but your jumps are fucking with my head.”

“I wish you’d fuck me and not let me fuck your head,” Castiel mutters petulantly, but he goes pliant anyway, when Dean kisses him soundly and he feels a hand on his cock again.

This time, though, Dean takes his pants off—and Castiel gasps at the coolness that hits him. It’s _heaven_.

Castiel hasn’t noticed where the bowl of soup had gone, but his mind flies out the window when Dean moves between his legs, propping his head up against Castiel’s thigh.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, eyes wide, his hands going to the Alpha’s head, and at Dean’s nod, he grabs hold. Dean’s impish grin should’ve warned him for something, but he doesn’t believe in warnings when it comes to Dean, and he moans when he feels a hot, slick tongue right _there_.

“Oh god Dean,” he pants, moaning again when he feels a sure, tight fist on his cock, and he bucks his hips up when Dean licks him _again_. Of course he should be expecting what happens next but he’s Castiel, of _course_ he doesn’t.

He doesn’t expect Dean inserting two long fingers inside of him, groaning when his knuckles fit the cheeks of Castiel’s ass.

Dean doesn’t say anything to break the sounds coming from Castiel as he fucks him with his fingers—adding one, and then two more digits—while jacking him off at the same time. Castiel practically _howls_ when Dean’s fingertips graze his prostate, but Dean doesn’t stop there—he pauses from thrusting his fingers into Castiel to simply _rub_ on that little nub of pure ecstasy.

Castiel can scent the powerful musk of Dean’s arousal in the air, and he highly commends the Alpha in his head for being able to keep himself from simply falling to baser instincts and just _took_ what his gender naturally tells him is rightfully his.

Dean twists his hand, violently striking Castiel’s prostate with all of his fingers in four consecutive hits, while his thumb presses against the slip of Castiel’s cock and the Omega comes—screaming Dean’s name as he does so, his hands clenching tightly—and probably painfully—on the Alpha’s hair.

The Alpha pulls away from Castiel, who’s still breathing hard and heavy, and reaches over the bedside table nearest to the both of them—and Castiel moans at the sight of his slick coating Dean’s fingers and dripping off his wrist. Dean then grabs a cup of juice, using his—holy _shit_ —come coated hand to assist Castiel to drink while he grins, and promptly licks Castiel’s slick off his fingers.

Which, of course, results in Dean’s shirt being showered with spit and juice as Castiel hacks, trying to dispel the liquid that had wrongly entered his windpipe instead of his esophagus. His chest hurts—that’s acidic drink, after all, and it went for his _lung_ instead of his stomach. He glares at Dean, who is bent over, laughing, and hits him on the head with a fist.

“OW! Fucker!” Dean exclaims, but he doesn’t stop laughing. Castiel takes the cup and drinks it himself, pointedly ignoring the Alpha on the bed who can’t stop giggling. “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry!”

“No you’re not,” Castiel mutters against the lip of the cup on his mouth. “This isn’t free entertainment, you actually have to _pay_ for this.”

Dean laughs again, and Castiel feels slightly better, and for the moment he forgets about what’s supposed to happen tonight.

He falls asleep again after that, curling around Dean, who wraps his arms around his body and pulls him as physically possible. He’s _content_ , for once, and again he finds himself regretting their circumstances. Maybe if life, if the world, if _society_ wasn’t so fucked up, they could’ve met properly—maybe during a day out at a park, or if they’re both exciting people, at the bar. And they can go out for dinner, like two normal people, they would talk about their lives and their pasts and their families, all which are completely mundane and not skewed as much as the lives that have led them into working for Seraph.

Castiel wishes he could have just been a normal kid—he probably could have gone to school, or did something that made real sense in the world other than destroying your life to destroy another person’s. He regrets that one stupid little decision that caused the chain reaction of his life, leading it here, working for Seraph, but as Dean’s arm tightens around him, he knows, he _knows_ , that, even if the theory of the multiverse existed, in _this_ particular universe, he will never be able to experience this—he never would have found Dean, never would have _had_ Dean—if he _didn’t_ make that decision.

His content little smile doesn’t make him feel bad, doesn’t make him feel sick, which highly surprises him. He remembers, back when he was younger, _before_ his job had been for Seraph, for the whatever twisted sense of ‘good’ Seraph has, he feels _sick_ and _mad_ whenever he finds a reason to smile—because if there’s anyone who doesn’t deserve to ever smile, to find contentment and happiness, it’s _him_.

Castiel doesn’t deserve happiness at all, ever, he knows.

“Stop thinking,” Dean says softly, kissing his neck, startling him. “Feeling blindly with our hands, remember?”

Castiel turns his head and rubs his nose against Dean’s, sighing softly. _Feeling blindly with our hands_ , he mentally agrees.

 

**..--..**

 

Dean stays awake, finding it hard and impossible _not_ to just move Cas and _slide into_ that thick, hot heat, but he restrains himself—and he finds it a lot easier than he expected. He isn’t kidding when he thinks of Cas _hot_ though. He’s had his _fingers_ moving inside of the Omega, and he doesn’t—can’t—regret it.

When Cas falls limp in his arms, breathing deep and steady, he slowly moves away, slipping his pillow against him before standing and moving away, kissing Cas’s neck one more time before straightening up, absently palming at the tent in front of his pants.

This morning had been the _hardest_ (pun, double entendre, whatever very much intended and applied) morning of his life, which ended with him in the shower, biting onto a towel to keep his moans to himself, and a knot that didn’t come down for almost an hour.

And this is the Alpha who has prided himself in the fact that he hasn’t popped a knot since the first time back when he was thirteen—highly embarrassing, too, that time, and he really doesn’t want to think about it.

It looks like that’s where he’s heading again, and it isn’t even _noon_ yet. But his hands are still coated in fluids that are very uniquely _Cas_ and he knows he’s being creepy and highly unhygienic but he doesn’t even try.

He goes to the downstairs bathroom, locking it behind himself and making sure the water is the proper temperature before stepping in, his hand coming up immediately to wrap around his throbbing knot.

“Cas,” he breathes, closing his eyes at the hot pressure of his own fingers encasing his cock. He starts stroking, slowly at first, allowing the water cascading down his front to act as lubricant, Cas’s scent mixing and mingling, even though it’s only faintly, with his own as he starts going faster, gripping tighter, twisting his wrist at the head just _so_ that makes him moan.

He can feel his second knot in fifteen years swelling, and he doesn’t even feel shame. The way he’s feeling is almost how he had learned Ruts were supposed to feel like—and he thumbs at the slit at the head of his cock, moaning Cas’s name again before he strokes down, quick and efficient, not really wanting to drag it out.

As he had expected, his knot swells when he comes, Cas’s name on but stuck in his lips. He enjoys the afterglow for a few good minutes before reaching for the soap, lathering his body and applying shampoo in his hair as well.

When Dean steps out of the shower his knot is almost completely deflated in his clean boxers, and he goes upstairs to check on Cas as well as put on a fresh change of clothes. The Omega is still sound asleep on the bed, and, when Dean is clothed, he approaches the younger, smaller man.

He checks Cas’s wrist—the one he’d been violently scratching, making it bleed—and takes the bandage off, pleased when he sees that the red, bloody wounds were clean, not inflamed, and didn’t look like welts by claws.

And then he frowns at the grayish-bluish pattern surrounding his wrist. It could almost be an attractive tattoo, had Dean not known what it was. He closes his eyes regretfully, because if anything, he really _does_ want to mate Cas, as soon as possible, but it hardly seems appropriate to do it _now_.

Instead he kisses the pattern showing that Cas is on the Spiral, is on his way to his deathbed the longer he spent on his own, and promises himself and Cas silently that he doesn’t _have_ to. Dean will make sure of it himself.

He doesn’t really know when or _how_ he had gotten so attached to the Omega—and they’ve known each other barely a month, if you think about it—but he doesn’t regret it. He _does_ want Cas, and he wants him badly, but he isn’t going to do something so drastic when they’re trying to save _Adam_.

He applies a new layer of ointment on Cas’s skin, chuckling when the Omega grunts in protest but doesn’t wake anyway, and then wraps around it a clean strip of bandage before resting it slightly on top of his pillow. Dean kisses Cas’s skin, letting his lips rest against the Omega’s skin for a few seconds before he goes downstairs for an early lunch.

 

Cas wakes in the early afternoon, calling for Dean almost desperately—he had been in the office, going through his rushed, revised plan—and then Dean jerked him off and fucked him with his fingers again until the Omega comes, screaming Dean’s name.

But they only had about thirty minutes before Dean had to do it again, though, and then fifteen after he came that time before Dean has to leave the room—the whole floor—to jerk himself off and relieve the pressure on his body. But when he goes back upstairs, Cas is sound asleep, arms wrapped around Dean’s old clothes, nose buried against Dean’s pillow.

Dean prepares another soup meal to leave for Cas, and then takes another bath—putting on scent suppressing soap and cologne this time—before putting on clothes he’ll use for this… meeting with Zachariah Adler, and leaves Cas’s food with a note on the bedside table.

****

****_Eat this when you wake up, Cas._  
I’m sorry.  
See you (hopefully) before dawn.            -Dean 

 

And then he double, triple checks all windows, leaves and locks the front door, gets into the car, and drives to Rosie’s bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI :)  
> I found a little free time (huehuehue) but it's midnight over here, but yeah. Here you go.
> 
> Anyway, I've already told you guys, but again, a big, big, big THANK YOU to the people who have gone out of their way to leave me comments and encouragements and I'd like you to know that without you, honestly, I never would have gone through with posting this story.
> 
> So, anyway, we're seeing some action now. Hihihihihi. This part of the 'verse is almost over!! (YEEESSSS) Just about (optimistically) 4 chapters or so to go. Hopefully.
> 
> If you want to read on any of the shizz about this verse, I've created a [ glossary that explains ](http://peur-van-dunkelheit.tumblr.com/post/83702282828/the-glossary) most of the major things about this 'verse.
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for your support!! :)  
> (I wish I could say thanks enough)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He takes one step closer, bending over his waist a little to look Zachariah in the eye. “What makes you think that’s what I want?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Torture scenes, arson, dark!Dean, and a little bit of dark!Cas (if you consider what happens dark) at the end.

“How’s Dmitri?”

Dean is at the bar, eating his fries and drinking his bar, waiting out the last ten minutes before he sees Zachariah. Sonny had come to check on him almost immediately, and then afterwards Jenna had come to talk to him. He empties his bottle and signs for the barkeep for another before looking at the Beta beside him.

“He’s… he’s okay, I think,” he answers, making himself sound uncertain. “We called his sister over, another Omega, to help him out.” He nods at the barkeep and takes a swig of his new bottle, enjoying the taste and feel of at least a little alcohol in his system. “Was kicked out as soon as she arrived. _Like I wasn’t the one helping Dim out this whole time_.”

“Ross, relax,” Jenna says gently, cautiously putting a hand on his shoulder. When he doesn’t shrug it off she rubs at his jacket with his thumb, working like a soothing mom more than Dean would admit. “His sister is an Omega, and so is he,” she continues, “and he _was_ drugged by an Alpha. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known Dmitri, but it doesn’t mean they don’t trust you either. It’s just that they’re _wary_ , and I can only imagine how worried that girl would have been on the way here.”

Dean grunts, acknowledging Jenna’s logic, but still playing the part of the Alpha with a wounded ego. “I just… I have a sister, too, and they know that. _She_ ’s an Omega, so why would I do fucking _anything_ to Dim when I’ve been _courting_ the guy for—”

He stops. That would be enough.

Jenna smiles and pulls her hand away. “How would you react if it was your sister, then? If someone was courting her, and she still got hurt in the presence of the person.”

Dean growls on cue.

The Beta laughs, patting him on the cheek. “See? That’s what I meant.”

She stands then, and Dean uses that split second to check on his surroundings— _there_. Approaching the bar, holding onto a briefcase, is someone who looks like a corporate jockey, complete with the suit and the short, pudgy stature. Dean’s suspicions are only confirmed when Jenna mutters “here comes fucking Adler” and moves away from Dean.

Dean smiles faintly—thinking, _don’t worry, he won’t be much of a problem anymore_. He immediately drops Ross Jacobs and becomes _Dean Winchester_ , Alastair’s favorite fledgling. He drinks the last dregs of his beer and orders three shots of whisky, taking those in quick succession—and he almost smirks at the wide-eyed stare of the barkeep—and orders something weaker then—rum.

He checks his watch.

19:57.

He looks up at the kid—probably college, around Adam’s age—who’s already taking his apron off, and Dean frowns. “Not your shift?” he asks.

The kid looks at him—and he smells a Theta, no wonder—and he nods. “I don’t take late shifts on weekends.”

Dean smiles, trying to look encouraging, and the Theta smiles back, blushing, before disappearing into the kitchen. Dean shakes his head in amusement, taking slow sips of his drink. He doesn’t want to be too drunk, but he doesn’t want to be completely sober for this, either.

At exactly eight PM another, older man takes over the bar and goes directly to Zachariah Adler—who’s four stools away from Dean—and, _obvious much_? But he shakes his head, finishing his drink, knowing this is over, and all he has to do is work on Zachariah now.

He signs at the newer guy—he’s never seen him before—and pays, leaving the change as ‘tip for the college kid’, hoping Zachariah hears him. And then he walks out of the bar, waiting outside the car, waiting for Zachariah to walk out.

Dean feels eternally thankful, a little sickly, that Cas isn’t with him as he takes one of his incapacitators and plunges it, harder than necessary, against Zachariah’s pudgy neck.

The man turns, begins saying something, and Dean is granted the pleasure of seeing a spark of panic before Zachariah Adler slumps in his arms.

He drags the man over to his car—hidden at the end of the exact same alley Cas had been attacked in last night—and he throws him into the back effortlessly. Dean is again reminded of last night, how… _easy_ and fluid his body had been during the fight. He knows he’s in shape, because he has to be, but he also knows that he should at least feel a little strain of suddenly fighting when he hasn’t had anything exciting happen in the past month.

It’s helped him climb the ranks smoothly when he was younger, but now that he’s older, it makes him uncomfortable.

He shuts the door with a bang and slides into the driver’s seat, backing up and starting the fifteen minute drive towards his shack.

Dean is filled with nerves at the silence of the car, used to having Cas sit with him, banter or converse softly as they drive, or to be on his own if it isn’t Cas driving with him. The scent of the Beta paralyzed at the backseat is clogging his senses—and he can’t believe he is more unnerved by the scent of a _Beta_ than he ever has been by the scent of an Alpha.

But maybe that’s the thing about this mission—he’s always either been alone or worked with a partner, but he’s never had a Handler before. He’s never been held down by the same rules in having a Handler. The three times he’d done this—Alistair’s _thing_ —were times he did with a partner, usually older and someone of more experience, because they don’t want kids getting traumatized by torture.

That logic makes Dean—and a couple of others, if he had been at Seraph—laugh, the sound brittle in the dead silence of the car. _Torture_ is in the Info Tagging division of a fledgling’s training—usually taken when they’re eighteen or nineteen years old—and they are taught of _all_ the possible ways you can torture someone, use anything around you to be a tool in torturing someone.

It was only the Rack that was an actual recognized _division_ that specialized in nothing but torture training. InfoTag division uses _dummies_ and new technology simulators for training. The Rack used to use real people.

Dean wonders if the Rack will be permanently off the system. Seraph would probably use him as the new trainer if they decide to put it up again.

He checks his mirrors for possible followers a mile before the turn to the field, and his eyes catch on something glinting dimly in the reflection of the mirror. It takes him a good three seconds to realize it’s his _eye_.

Dean pulls over to the side, alarmed, and leans up and closer to the window.

The only thing he can think of is, _Cas was right_. His eyes _were_ glowing. He had thought Cas was just _hallucinating_ things, that his vision had been somehow affected by the fever of his Heat, but… but _no_ , no Cas was telling the truth: he didn’t have a fever.

_Dean’s eyes are glowing._

He tries to think of a possible solution. Call Sam? Call his bosses? Pull out of this mission? Just get back to Cas and forget about— _no_.

He shakes his head and gets back to the deserted highway. No, he will _not_ do anything to stop this mission. Not when he’s this close to finding anything to find his brother. He forgets the ‘glowing eyes’ thing and locks it up in a part of his brain that doesn’t see the light regularly, concentrating on the road not to miss the turning point to the shack.

It’s still a couple of miles away, in tall grass and no paths, but he doesn’t mind. He grabs his keys, a syringe of capacitator fluid, and a vial of cobra’s venom—all from the glove compartment of the car. He wonders idly if Cas knows there are such things in there.

He clutches Zachariah Adler’s collar, pulling him out of the car and up across his shoulders before bending down and taking the briefcase, shutting the car door with a slam. The sound echoes through the field, but not a single sound—not even a rustle in the grass from a startled animal answers back. This should alarm Dean, he knows, but he _has_ planted motion-triggered ammonia and chloroform sprays around the perimeter of the field.

Anyone or anything that can enter the place after that must either have a strong nervous system or just really know what they’re looking for.

The walk towards the shack isn’t as taxing as Dean expected it to be, what with carrying another man on his shoulders and a briefcase that could be as heavy as he is. He sets Zachariah down on an old rolling office chair he had found stacked in one of the shack’s little rooms, the upholstery holed up and eaten away by years of dust and rats and other things.

He makes sure to tie the man down properly—keeping the man’s feet apart the right amount, angling it so he wouldn’t be able to use the power of his thighs and calves (because who knows, maybe he does thigh and calf exercises) to stand up and try to get away, tying his wrists but making sure he doesn’t cut off the circulation, his arms straight (but limp for the moment) in front of him so he can’t use his torso muscles to get away either.

And then he takes a small syringe out of one of the pulley table he built, plunging it into the stopper in the venom vial and taking just a single drop—just enough to plunge into the heart to make a death look like a heart attack, or, if the blood coagulated wrong, cardiac arrest.

On to his favorite part: waking the fucker up.

Dean takes the syringe of capacitator fluid out of his pocket with unnecessary flourish, grinning a little too madly before plunging it with exaggerated slowness—the exact opposite of how he did it earlier in front of the bar—down the vein on the man’s neck.

“ _What in the bloody_ —”

Dean doesn’t stop grinning when the man regains his consciousness. Incapacitators shut the brain’s conscious and subconscious off, so whoever has been poisoned with the serum shuts down in the middle of whatever their brain had been intent on doing.

Zachariah had wanted to ask that question before he shut off, and now that it’s out of his system, and realization is slowly gaining, he’s beginning to feel scared. Dean snaps on a new strip of olfactory jammers and steps into the pudgy man’s line of vision, taking a sick sense of pleasure in the jolt he gives at the sight of him.

“What do you want?” he asks immediately, his eyes wide and panicked. “Please, is it money? Is it a job? Or do you want something off of a Collector’s pocket fresh? I’ll give it. I’ll do it! Please! Let me go!”

Dean raises an eyebrow. This ought to be interesting. Part of his mind is jotting down quick notes of everything Zachariah says, and another part is dedicated solely to the job at hand. He had always _thought_ Zachariah would a pansy ass, but he never expected the man to be so _easy_.

He takes one step closer, bending over his waist a little to look Zachariah in the eye. “What makes you think that’s what I want?”

“It’s not? No, no, of course it’s not, Alpha!! Of course it’s something _better_. What would it be, may I ask?”

Dean straightens up, looking critically down at the man before him.

He’s pacifying his Alpha’s ego, sale-talking him into either letting him go or telling him what he wants. But that’s not Dean’s purpose—he just wants the man to sweat a bit, jingle in his nerves, and then he grins.

“Oh, I want a little _something_ I know only you can give me,” he says conspiratorially, tapping his own chin before bringing out one of his three favorite hunting knives—the hunting knives from Russia that the kids he had spent time training at the Rack with had given him.

The blades are engraved with their names. He chooses the one he rarely uses, representing the one person who has always been _regretful_ every time someone dropped, because dropping at the Rack meant being the one _on_ the rack.

Zachariah’s small smile of glee is immediately turned into a face of horror when he sees the knife glinting in the dim light provided by the three lamps Dean had brought. He looks at Dean again this time, in the eye, and something seems to click in his head.

“I’m not here because you want money, am I?” he whispers, his face blanching at whatever thought that realization brings him.

“Nope,” Dean answers a little too giddily as he turns the blade so the name looks up at him. _Jimmy_. He looks at Zachariah, pointing the knife down before continuing. “Where is Adam Milligan?”

Immediately Zachariah clams up, his face hardening though his eyes are still scared as a bunny’s. _This_ , this right here is what excites Dean: breaking people down from their defenses, making them bleed and cry until they talk their hearts out in the hope for death or release. A part of him hates himself for it, but he’ll wallow in that later; right now, he needs to focus on breaking Zachariah Adler.

“Oh, so that’s how we’ll play it,” Dean whispers, even to himself sounding like a demented man, before he makes a shallow little cut on one of the places that hurt the worst: at the webbing between Zachariah’s index and middle fingers.

The Beta’s arm twitches away as he gasps, tears already escaping from his eyes.

“But we’re not even _starting_ yet,” Dean whines, pouting as he takes a bottle of something from his ‘table of tools’ and takes a pinch of whatever is inside. And then he drops it—salt—on top of the wound, making the man writhe.

“No, you’re not going to talk, I know,” Dean says when Zachariah opens his mouth, “so you might as well just keep quiet.” He takes the knot off of the Beta’s tie, rolling it up and unceremoniously stuffing it into the man’s mouth.

And then, slowly, he looks at Zachariah in the eye and drags his knife down his shirt—smirking when he hears a stuttered breath. He moves the man’s shirt to the sides still using Jimmy’s knife, watching with a curious kind of delight at the heaving muscles. He taps the middle of his chest, approximately where the diaphragm would be, and makes another shallow but longer cut.

The Beta grunts, but Dean isn’t over yet.

 _Oh, I’m far from over_.

 

Dean takes his precious time with this particular victim.

“You know,” he says conversationally as he plunges a knife as thin as a knitting needle into Zachariah’s flabby tricep, making him scream into his own tie, “I can probably list to you the names of the different torture devices and methods I can use on you right now.” He twists the needle, causing a few drops of blood to slip out, before pulling it out completely, leaving Zachariah gasping in pain.

There is now a hole almost as thick as Dean’s pinky finger in his arm.

“I can use on you… hmm… the heretics’ fork, ever heard of it?”

Zach shakes his head. Dean uses that little second of distraction to push his fingernail into the wound the needle caused, making the Beta’s eyes widen just a little, before he pushes down forcefully, at the same time reaching over to Zach’s wrist with his free hand, hooking it across, and pressing his thumb against the bone.

The combined pain synapses makes Zach jerk in his seat, and Dean almost laughs, except that would be too cruel, so he steps away, tilts his head, and promptly punches Zach across the face. He doesn’t register the flair of pain on his knuckles, enjoying instead Zach’s look of fear as he meet’s Dean’s eyes again.

Dean then reaches out and pulls a crank, roughly causing the Beta to lie back as the chair’s backrest falls to make it like a flat table roughly the height of Dean’s hip. He brings up a candle, lighting it, and then waiting for it to drip onto the man’s stomach twice—once on a cut he’d made—before putting it back and taking a cup of ice water ( _well, good thing it’s fall_ ) and letting that drip onto the  man’s stomach, too, alternating the hot and the cold before suddenly slicing at the man’s inner thigh, making him scream.

 _This_ is what makes Dean something more of an enigma, even as Alistair’s kid: he likes surprises. He _isn’t_ systematic in any way, he does what he wants to do and there really isn’t anything you can do about it.

It goes on for _hours_. Dean loses himself in the blood, in the flesh, in the muffled screams; he forgets about Cas, back in the house, probably sleeping; he forgets about Sammy, who’s maybe still courting that pretty blonde clerk; and, worst of all, he forgets about himself: he forgets about all of the morals and ideals that he prided himself in, all the beliefs that people say sets him apart from everyone else of his gender.

Dean looks down at Zachariah Adler, holding up Jimmy’s knife, twisting it a few centimeters away from the Beta’s skin. Dean can’t scent anything, but he knows that the air is clogged with the Beta’s fear, his excitement, and the smell of blood. Dean plunges the knife into the Beta’s hand, between two knuckles, smiling sickly at the sound of snapping joints and another muffled scream. Tears are streaming down Zachariah’s face freely, falling off and landing on the shell of his ear.

The Alpha cocks his head and looks at the gathered droplets curiously, using his knife to reach out and touch it. The man on the table jerks his head away from Dean’s knife, and he grins, before slicing through the cartridge. It doesn’t hurt much, he knows, but it will hurt enough to let Zachariah know what happened.

Somehow, during the time it takes Dean to nick him on the ear and continue passing hot cold things down Zachariah’s body, the latter was able to spit his tie out. Dean snaps his head up, green eyes on Zachariah, as he hacked and coughed and let spittle out.

“ _What are you_?” he gasps, looking, horrified, at Dean. He reaches up to stuff the tie back in, but the Beta continues: “I’ll talk! I’ll talk, I’ll tell you, but please stop!!” He’s sobbing now, and Dean doesn’t even have to prompt him to say anything before he continues. “Jackson de Ville, find him, _find him_ , he’ll tell you where they’re hiding Adam Milligan!”

“Who’s Jackson de Ville?” Dean asks. “Where do I find him?”

“EZ Technologies, he’ll be there. We both work for the man who kidnapped Adam!”

The Alpha grins. “ _Who_ kidnapped Adam? Why?” He shifts.

“Fergus Crowley,” Zachariah Adler gasps, and then he sobs. “The boy… he, he got into the database for the Bloodlines Project.”

The last two words out of the Beta ring something within Dean’s mind, but he thinks, _later_ as he sinks the syringe of snake venom into the man’s chest, plunging it straight to his chest and pressing his thumb down, losing all of the liquid down the needle. He watches as the Beta’s eyes widen for a second, before he gasps, and then he chokes out blood for a moment.

He jerks, one last abortive movement, and falls still.

The rest of the hour is spent with Dean fixing up the shack and carrying Zachariah, now a literal dead weight, back to the car, and driving to the Beta’s house.

It’s a rather small, simple affair, professionally designed and architected, which makes Dean feel highly uncomfortable. He likes Zachariah even less, if that’s possible. He puts the man down on the living room couch—as, according to the surveillance reports they have, he _loves_ sitting in his living room while waiting for coffee to boil in the kitchen—before he goes to the said room.

He sees the coffee maker and plugs it in, but doesn’t put water into the kettle. Instead he cracks a little bit of butane into the socket by the counter, not too much that it would be obvious, but enough to be fuel.

And then, using an old lighter, collects enough lint to wrap around a tissue paper and stick into the coffee maker’s heating appendage. Finally, he scoops water from the tap using his cupped hand, drinks part of it, and sprinkles the rest on the socket.

He thinks for a second he’s going to have to mess with the wires, but the water works: he sees a spark, smells burning paper, and hears the coffee pot break. He turns with a confident smirk the moment he sees a lick of fire come from the coffee maker, walking purposely and exactly on time out of the kitchen door as it explodes.

Dean looks over his shoulder despondently as he sees the kitchen draperies and cabinets catch on fire, shrugging before walking out through the same door he walked into.

He waits in the car for about eight minutes to see the whole house catch, and then burn, in the fire that will soon be determined to have been started by faulty wiring and a wet socket. The house owner, Zachariah Adler, would be found in his living room, dead before the fire due to a heart attack, burned to a crisp, all on his own.

Dean drives away, smirking—he doesn’t look at any mirror or windshield, knowing he’ll hate himself even more than he usually does the moment he sees how he looks. He drove around the town for a couple more hours, noting absently that, when he’s on his way to the house, it’s already almost four.

He stays in the car until six, staring at the door, at the lights through the windows. He looks at himself in the mirror and slowly comes back to himself—that weird glowing in his eyes slowly growing fainter and fainter until it’s completely gone. Would it help for Dean to go inside and tell Cas that he hadn’t been imagining the glowing, that it had been real?

The Alpha wonders how he looks, covered in blood, his clothes ruined by the wind and dust. And then he shakes his head, decides, _what the fuck_ , and gets out of the car.

 

**..--..**

 

The past seven hours had been _torture_. Rationally, Castiel knows he should be resting, allowing his body to recover from the serious strain it had gone through the past two—three?—days. Drug-induced Heats always last shorter than natural Heats, unless, of course, somebody had thought to drug him _regularly_.

But instead Castiel sits on the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms around his calves, looking out the window. He’d drawn the curtains down some, so he can stare at the stars and a sliver of the dark sky. There’s a gun beside him, too, which he grabs at every single sound, even with just the house simply settling.

He heard a car pull up to the front of the house an hour ago, and he knows it’s Dean, but he hasn’t gotten up from the bed to check. Neither has anyone opened the door to come inside, so something must be wrong. What’s taking Dean so long?

Finally, finally he can’t stand it anymore—he gets up, grabs his gun, and goes downstairs. He arrives at the bottom step just in time for Dean to enter the room. They both look up sharply, green eyes meeting blue, but Castiel doesn’t hesitate to bring up the gun, holding it steadily to point at Dean’s forehead.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but bizarrely he isn’t surprised when Dean grins and starts laughing.

He looks maniacal—his face and clothes are splattered with blood, his hands and fingers are dirty, his hair and entire _countenance_ is a mess. Castiel cocks his head as Dean continues laughing, sounding more and more demented as time passes.

Finally the Alpha stops, looks Castiel dead in the eye and making him shiver. That strange _glow_ is back in his eyes—and now he’s sure that he isn’t imagining anything, that the glow in Dean’s eyes (and not the good one, too) isn’t something created by his hazy mind, but something _real_.

Something that’s now right in front of him, staring down the barrel of his gun.

Dean slowly strips himself—starting with his jacket, and then his flannel shirt, leaving only a thin—and surprisingly clean—white undershirt before he takes a mean looking hunting knife, dropping it in front of him unceremoniously.

And then he toes off his boots, looking down briefly at the sound of more knives hitting the ground, before he snaps something on his inside thigh and kicks that leg forward. Castiel watches as a thigh holster falls out, a small handgun still nestled safely inside.

“So,” Dean starts conversationally, standing with his feet shoulder-distance, his arms resting on his smaller back. He cocks his head right back at the Omega. “I see your Heat’s gone.”

“It was a drug induced Heat,” Castiel answers smoothly, letting himself think that this _isn’t_ his partner, that there’s _nothing_ wrong with him being armed and the man before him not. “Those Heats last shorter periods of time than natural Heats.”

The Alpha raises his eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. “Did you eat your soup?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you pointing that gun at me?”

“You’re a potential threat.” Castiel continues staring Dean down, stepping forward slowly, surreptitiously dropping his arms. But Dean is an Alpha, and he’s a well trained host, of _course_ he’ll know that Castiel is dropping defenses.

Dean doesn’t move, at least not obviously, for the next two moments.

It’s more than enough time for Castiel to make up his mind.

 

**..--..**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA. HAHA. HA. HA. I thought I'd never get to get this chapter out. I kept pushing it back, because it was hard to write the first time, and I thought it'd be easier but I was wrong.
> 
> I cut a whole lot of the torture scene out of this chapter, and replaced them with Dean's ruminations, and we'll see, maybe I'll decide it's worth getting my head screwed over and I'll post it somewhere sometime.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> PS. I'm still looking for a Beta :(


	9. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A young!Samcentric drabble that I wrote for you guys, because I owe you as much, and I had to get it out of my system. Good news: I found my flash drive!!
> 
> Cross-posted at [ Tumblr ](http://peur-van-dunkelheit.tumblr.com/post/86115377946/home-a-spirals-drabble)
> 
> I hope you enjoy, guys!!

You have no idea what to think when you look at him. He’s still your brother, but somehow, every time he looks over his shoulder to grin at you, he always looks a little bit different: it’s like he’s slowly becoming a stranger. Again.

You don’t want that to happen a second time: you know it’s your fault. You didn’t listen properly. All you wanted was for Dad to look at you and _smile_ and be proud of you like he is of Dean. But Dean’s told you not to worry; telling you things like “It’s not your place, Sam.” or “I’m the one who’s supposed to worry, Sam.”

But you don’t _want_ him to worry—not about you.

He always comes back with a new bruise.

And he always flinches away when you try to hug him.

It hurts, and you tell him as much.

The way he looks at you makes you feel so _sick_ that you turn and run for the bathroom, but he’s _Dean_ , of course he follows you in there, he pulls you into his lap so he can pat your back while you empty your stomach (that small serving of spaghetti Dad had heated up in the microwave for you before he left this morning) and then you turn your head and you hug your brother, because like that you can pretend that he’s a hero, that you’re safe, that you _will_ be safe from the world.

You can pretend that there weren’t people in suits and ties and skirts came to your home (it’s the first _real_ and _nice_ place you’ve ever had) and asked you if you wanted to do the same thing your dad and brother did.

“We were expecting John would allow you to join at your age,” one of the women had said, looking at you with a weird expression, like how Dean would look while he’s timing himself when he’s fixing up his gun. “Dean _did_ come in at ten.”

You had frowned at them in answer, feeling a little queasy (because you were alone, and they _knew_ Dad’s codeword, so you had no choice but to let them in, but you didn’t know what they were talking about).

“Do you want to join us, Samuel?” one of the men had asked this time, looking at you with the same look the woman did.

“I don’t… know,” you answer, talking for the first time since they came in, and you know you’re still frowning.

“Do you remember what happened to Dean four years ago, Sam?”

And you cut yourself off there, because you don’t want to relive it _again_ , so you hold on to Dean’s jacket even tighter.

But you do anyway—you remember that time when you first moved in here, how excited you were and how _happy_ and just how jumpy you were when Dad said you were staying here permanently. Dean didn’t even try to tease you too much—and it’s all because you both _know_ , that he, too, is excited, because you finally have a _home_ , you won’t have to move too much anymore.

No more scary things in the middle of the night because the room you’re staying in stinks too much and it makes your mind go crazy over the things that aren’t actually _there_.

But that night was also the last night you saw Dean for a whole month.

You kept asking Dad, kept saying you missed Dean; but even then _Dad_ didn’t say anything—he left you, too, only called up Uncle Bobby to watch you or Aunt Ellen to teach you or Uncle Rufus to play with you. Having a home was _boring_ , you realized that day, not when Dean wasn’t there.

And then you asked them, too—Uncle Bobby and Aunt Ellen and even grumpy Uncle Rufus one time when you were sick and he was the one stuck looking after you for the week. But all they did was look at you like they were about to cry and tell you not to worry—that Dean was okay and that he was doing something like school. But that’s _Dean_ , he doesn’t like going to school—he doesn’t even _like_ the idea of school. You tell them that, and they shake their head and say it again.

You get tired of it, because it’s been too long, and when Dean finally comes home he looks tired and he has bruises and there’s something on his arm that he says keeps him from moving it. You were worried—of course you were—but he just smiled at you and hugged you and locked himself in his room.

That’s been going on for _years_ —and you’ve realized that Dean is doing the same thing Dad has been doing this whole time: he’s fighting. You still don’t know yet how he’s doing that, or who the bad guys are, but you don’t even want to know anymore. You’re just tired. All you want to do is be with Dean and play with Dean and just have a home with Dean like he always told you he had with Mom.

But Mom is gone; she’s just a picture in a small frame Dean keeps beside his bed. She’s just stories told to you when you want to know more about the beautiful green-eyed lady when you can’t sleep or you’re bored. She’s just… she’s just a _part_ of a life you don’t even remember.

So you cling on to Dean, and you sob onto his neck what just happened, and he squeezes you and tells you it’s your choice if you want to do it or not. He’ll make sure of it, he promises; he’ll do his best so you don’t have to be forced into doing ‘this’.

He doesn’t tell you what ‘this’ is.

He only tells you four more years later, when he’s a complete stranger again, when you’re older and you realize that you’ve been so _wrong_ about this world for so long, and you understand the little things that happen around you.

He only tells you when you have no _choice_ anymore, when _they_ realize that Dean is good—that he’s too good, and they need one more of him.

He only tells you when he’s fighting _them_ , the people you once thought were good, but you realize are bad because they took from you your brother.

You only find out that the world is so _wrong_ when you are taught all that you are but are looked down on because you’re too _sick_ to do the same thing Dean does, and he says, “It’s better like this. At least you don’t have to do what _I_ do.” and so you’re stuck thinking and helping and answering questions you don’t know why you have to know the answers to.

Eight years—it only takes eight years for you to change your mind.

You don’t want a home; you don’t want _this_.

You don’t want this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sadly not that happy with how this turned out, but it's the best I can do for now. Again, I will still have to edit everything. Thank you for being patient, friends!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts circle and bumble around his head as he stares, not paying attention at all to the other man—the armed man standing in front of him. He’s already at a disadvantage, so what’s the point in fighting for the upper hand? Castiel still needs him, until this whole job is over, it’s not like he’s going to kill Dean tonight.
> 
> Or wait, maybe he will, but Dean will never know, will he? He isn’t that connected to the Omega to instinctively know the thoughts and the decisions he’s having simply from watching his eyes or face or feet, because that’s all Dean can see right now. No, no. Whatever bond they were able to make in the past month has been nullified and voided by whatever the fuck he’s done in the past ten hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!! If you haven't checked the last chapter yet, goooo.  
> Go read it and tell me what you think of it.  
> Because I'm back, and I'm done with three more chappies, and expect an update this Saturday :D

Everything Dean’s ever known—from the simple training sessions his father had given him on the road those few years between Mary’s death and Seraph; to the in-depth learning and physical exertions of Seraph Host training itself; to the intricate art of torture and pain during those few years with Alistair and the rack—told him to _grab a weapon and kill_.

Kill the blue eyed man.

Destroy him, destroy his life—he’s pointing a gun at you. He has to die. He’s a threat—no one will ever know.

But with every step Cas takes closer to him he feels that part, that thought, that _voice_ slowly drain away from him, from his mind, from his body until, when Cas is merely three inches away, the gun now pointed down on the ground, he slumps forward, seemingly like a toppled building. Cas reaches up and holds him close, looping his arms around Dean’s neck and pulling him down until the gun is almost painfully digging into his shoulders.

He shudders, feeling his knees buckle, and he falls. Castiel lets him.

Dean stares at the wood between his knees, his arms listless on either side of his thighs, head hung and whole body seeming to have lost all the fight that usually drove him.

This job isn’t over yet; they still have to find Adam. He has a name, and he probably will have to torture Jackson de Ville for more information. And then he’ll have to find a way to keep him, his Handler, and his brother alive and get them all back to Seraph—which may not be the safest place on earth, but is still the safest in the moment.

Thoughts circle and bumble around his head as he stares, not paying attention at all to the other man—the _armed_ man standing in front of him. He’s already at a disadvantage, so what’s the point in fighting for the upper hand? Castiel still needs him, until this whole job is over, it’s not like he’s going to kill Dean tonight.

Or wait, maybe he will, but Dean will never know, will he? He isn’t _that_ connected to the Omega to instinctively know the thoughts and the decisions he’s having simply from watching his eyes or face or _feet_ , because that’s all Dean can see right now. No, no. Whatever _bond_ they were able to make in the past month has been nullified and voided by whatever the fuck he’s done in the past ten hours.

Alongside everything Dean notices he’s reverted back to calling his Handler by his whole name rather than the more intimate, shorter name he’d accidentally called him that one time, and continued doing so, even in his head. Nicknames and pet names and endearments—those are signs of intimacy and bonding, right? So does this mean it’s over—whatever Dean began—without it even _really_ starting?

He chuckles darkly at himself for that.

He’s deluding himself again—making himself think he actually had _something_. But he’s never really had Castiel; no, not really. Castiel isn’t his to lose. Just like Mary, all those years ago, who always smiled weakly when Dean came to her, but smiled brightest when John touched her or little Sammy cooed at her. Mary, who looked at Dean with a deserted kind of delight and fondness, like she’s decided she doesn’t have much of a choice, so why should she look a gift horse in the mouth? It’s what’s here—in her case ( _isn’t it in everybody’s?_ ) it was Dean.

Mary, who simply looked at Dean in the eye and asked him the one question he’s been asking himself since he was old enough to _understand_ the day she died, pale and weak and useless and listless.

Dean loved his mother. He loves her until now, so maybe that’s why she’s coming up to him _again_ in this one time of weakness, when he doesn’t know why he’s so raw, what’s wrong with him, how everything turned from the easy slide of blade against skin to this—him, shaking, on his knees on the ground, staring at the floor, in front of an Omega who has a gun still pointed at him.

He starts when Castiel suddenly drops in front of him, wide, bright blue eyes staring at him until he lifts his head to meet them. Castiel’s kneeling on the floor, much like Dean is, but the gun is now laying forgotten by his feet. Dean thinks he still has a chance—he can lunge for the gun and tackle the Omega down; he is stronger, he’s bigger. But somehow, staring at those deep blue eyes that he’s become _attached_ to, like he always does, he doesn’t.

 _What the fuck_ , the Alpha thinks, one last time before he lunges forward, tackles Castiel to the ground, and crushes their mouths together. He feels it when his own _mind_ yields, when Castiel becomes Cas again, when _Dean_ becomes Dean again.

He softens, slows the kiss, turning it sweet, more welcoming that vengeful, because this is Cas, because he deserves better than to be treated like a… a stress reliever or something. He snakes both of his arms down and around Cas’s waist, sliding one up his back to cradle the back of his head. Castiel has both arms around Dean’s shoulders, clinging to his neck tightly, his legs spread to accommodate Dean’s on top of him.

Dean pulls away and rests his chin on Cas’s shoulder, not looking at him as he uses the hand he cradles the Omega’s head with to take off the olfactory jammer on his nose. He buries his face immediately on Cas’s neck, breathing in and licking and sucking at his pulse, surrounding himself with the Omega’s scent, forcing himself to forget the faint smell of fear, adrenaline, blood and worry around him, making himself forget about his _own_ scent, breathing in Cas’s like he needs it to survive.

Because, right now, he actually might.

Cas tugs on the hairs at the back of his neck and pulls away, just a bit, enough so they can look at each other in the eyes. His blue orbs look _warm_ , and _soft_ , and _welcoming_ , and everything that doesn’t deserve and shouldn’t be having right at this moment but he can’t help it when he lets himself fall, just a little bit more, smiling at Cas when his lips quirk up for just a bit.

He opens his mouth, about to speak, but Cas beats him to it, saying, “The floor… isn’t really that _comfortable_ , Dean,” and it’s a good thing because Dean might probably ruin whatever Cas is trying to achieve by making things far more awkward and tense than they already are. He nods, gets back to his knees, still pulling Cas up with him. He spreads his legs, snaking them under Cas’s bent knees, holding the Omega close to his body and simply breathing him _in_.

“Your heat is over,” he mutters softly, stupidly, because that’s the best he can do and there’s nothing better in his mind that he thinks will _not_ ruin the mood, and he lets out a relieved breath when Cas laughs in his arms, snaking his own to cradle Dean’s head. “You still smell good.”

“ _Of course_ I do, Alpha,” Cas answers smarmily, and Dean _hears_ rather than sees the eye roll he’s sure he’s getting. “Can we get off the floor? Seriously, my butt feels sore.”

Dean snorts, eternally grateful that they’ve gotten past _that_ part of the evening and on to the better one. “I hope it’s nothing I should be worried about.”

There’s one tense moment before Cas pulls away, punching him on the chest and laughing, throwing his head back _beautifully_ and giving Dean a hunger-inducing view of the long column of his neck, pale against the steady stream of the rising sun through the window. Dean licks his lips, thinking, _that can be mine_ , before Cas shakes his head and immediately gets up, offering his hands to Dean.

He looks at them for a minute before resting his own on top of Cas’s palms, letting the smaller man pull him up to his feet.

“Let’s get you to bed, Alpha,” Cas sings softly, gently, wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist and resting his head on the Alpha’s shoulder. Dean snakes his own around Cas’s neck, pulling him in for a moment to land a kiss on top of his head before he lets Cas pull away, leading them both upstairs to the bedroom.

Dean ignores the scent of anxiety and fear he knows he’s caused to stick in the stale air of the room, instead latching onto the faint scent of arousal and _Heat_ and _mate_ as Cas leads him to the bed, unceremoniously dumping him on his ass so he bounces for a second before falling on his back. He stares up at the ceiling, his mind still uncooperative, still stuck on the fact that he had been in danger and he didn’t fight.

But he’s okay now, he has Cas moving in the bathroom ( _Why’s he in the fucking bathroom, anyway?_ ), he’s lying on the bed, almost lazy, almost reaching sleep, and he’s safe. He knows that—he’s checked all doors and windows before he entered the house, because he had an _Omega_ at home to take care of and protect—never mind that Cas isn’t _his_ and that this isn’t _home_.

He’s on the verge of unconsciousness when he feels something wet and warm and soft and rough rubbing at his face, and he snaps his eyes open to Cas’s face smiling down at him.

“Gotta clean you up,” he murmurs, kissing Dean on the forehead before rubbing the cloth there, slowly, gently, rubbing off soot and blood and dirt and dust. He moves down Dean’s neck, and the Alpha’s first instinct is to fight back and slap that hand away, but he slowly tilts his chin, knowing what he’s doing, what he’s showing, knowing that Cas _knows_ the moment he freezes, tries to pull away.

Dean catches his wrist before he can pull away completely.

“No,” he murmurs, kissing the back of Cas’s hand before putting it back against his skin. “Go ahead, Omega.”

Cas waits one more moment before continuing on his task, using his free hand to unbutton Dean’s shirt and pull it off of him before going on to wipe off Dean’s torso, too. Dean closes his eyes, letting himself this moment of respite to be cared for, to not make decisions and not to _think_. He allows himself to zone off, because this is Cas, because he is safe. If the Omega had wanted him dead, he had twenty minutes of vulnerability just a while ago to have done it.

But Dean’s alive, because Cas wants him to be, because maybe Cas wants to keep him as much as Dean wants Cas.

He doesn’t notice when Cas finishes up, doesn’t notice when he curls around Dean’s torso, doesn’t notice when he pulls up the afghan over their bodies and rubs at his chest—at the tattoo Sam and he got when Sam turned eighteen.

He just falls asleep, to Cas’s scent and the illusion of _finally_ not being alone.

 

Everything comes crashing down when he opens his eyes around mid-afternoon.

Dean looks around himself, feeling a little panicked, because _where’s Cas? Is he okay? Where the fuck_ —

His train of thought is cut off when the door opens, and in comes his Handler—his horrendous bed head, torso covered in one of Dean’s large shirts, smiling impishly while holding up a tray with plates and bowls and cups and a pitcher.

Dean didn’t think one could carry all of that in one go—but he’s thankful for it, because if Cas had been gone for a little bit _longer_ he might have gone into a real panic attack. It isn’t the first time it’s ever happened, but it’ll be the first in _years_ , and it’s all because of a small show of vulnerability.

Cas walks over and sits beside Dean, ignoring his offer to help, setting the tray on the bed between their thighs and pouring a cup of orange juice before handing it over to Dean, who takes it and gratefully drinks half of it in one swig. Cas’s face tells Dean everything he needs to know about what’s happening—and his heart skips a beat. He can’t even bring himself to feel _bad_ for doing it in a time of crisis (AKA his brother’s rescue). He’s far too… he’s in far too deep now, and he smiles at Cas, leaning a bit to peck him on the forehead.

He started this, with the trust he showed Cas this morning—and he did it _twice_ , once with giving up all of his weapons and falling to his knees in complete submission at the face of danger (danger that Cas had waved down his nose in the form of a slick gun); and again when he raised his chin and allowed Cas to take care of one of the most sensitive parts of his body: his throat.

They’ve shared a bed; now they’re sharing a meal.

It isn’t the first time either of them had done it, with each other or anybody else. But it’s the first time in _this_ context—the first time in the face of something as big as _mating_.

He’d told Jenna last night ( _Holy fuck, was that really just last night?)_ that he was courting _Dmitri_ , a façade, just the face they’ve established for themselves in this place, to keep them from being sore thumbs that stick out. Now, now, as he moans involuntarily around a slice of toast and egg, he’s _officially_ courting Cas.

He’d told Cas they won’t mate, but he didn’t really mean to say they won’t _court_ , did he? His parameters at the beginning of whatever those drugs did to change their relationship were open-ended. He still smiles, though, at the abashed look Cas sends his way as he shyly eats up as well.

“Didn’t know you were a good cook,” Dean says, because this is part of the whole courting thing: you make each other feel good, test your limits and find out where one ends so you won’t be too confused when you begin.

“It’s just _breakfast_ , Dean,” Cas answers, and he manages to sound modest and sarcastic at the same time, pulling a laugh out of Dean. “Besides, I _really_ don’t want to see you in the kitchen.”

Cas’s sharp look tells him that he understood his statement the way the Omega intended him to: he’s talking about the fire. “So that’s out there now, huh?” It’s not surprising, really. Zachariah Adler is one big son of a bitch in the business sector, not just of this town, but probably of this whole _region_. And he lived in the more affluent part of the city—the one where the houses were large with nice lawns in front and maybe a fountain or two around the property. “Though not really surprising. The media here seems quick for the pick-up.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “What, are you impressed? The whole place burned down. The insurance people aren’t.”

That makes Dean laugh again, harder this time, hard enough that he starts _coughing_ , which Cas chides him for, but he simply grins up at the blue-eyed Omega before him, kissing him daintily on the lips before continuing with his breakfast. “It was a fun thing to do,” he admits, chewing a little, looking at the ceiling, thinking. “ _That_ , kids, is why you never forget to pull your plugs.”

His future mate (oh wow that sounds _good_ ) smiles at him fondly, taking a swig of his own cup of juice before continuing with his meal. The conversation goes on after that. They talk about strange accidents all around the word—from surreal to stupid to downright retarded.

Dean didn’t think it would be this easy. He never imagined things to tide over so well with Cas. Well, he didn’t really _mean_ to end up courting the Omega, but _still_ , the way Cas had reacted last night… Dean had begun believing maybe that’s how it’d always be in his life: he does his job, finishes it, but he’ll never really be safe, not until he stops accepting that _torture_ is a part of the job.

The way Cas led the conversation though… it almost seems as if Cas was _impressed_. Is he? Or is he simply looking at this in a detached point of view?

Too much thinking gets Dean nowhere, so he pulls himself back to the present and helps his Handler fix up their dishes, helping carry them downstairs and helping clean up as much as he can get away with. The courting seems to be bringing out some of Cas’s innate nature, and, though Dean finds it endearing, and makes his inner Alpha rear its ugly head inside of him, too, he still looks out for Cas.

He _knows_ Cas now, knows that the Omega won’t take him for his bullshit, and that this whole thing is probably freaking him out as much as it is Dean. So Dean keeps his eyes opened, watching Cas’s expressions, his body language, watching out for sudden drops or freezes.

None of what he’s worried about happen the whole afternoon.

They spend what’s left of their day in front of the television, Dean tucked into one corner of the couch, one leg running along its back; Cas snuggled tightly against his torso, feet tucked under Dean’s other thigh as they watch some of the DVDs Dean had asked Seraph to bring over—finding common interests in Sci-fi and adventure.

It’s funny, really, how they’ve been living together, in a sense, for a month, and they’re only learning about each other when the laws of nature are commanding them to for the amount of crap they’ve built into each other and themselves.

But Dean can’t find it in himself to care, not when Cas has his arms stretched behind his head, scratching Dean’s, his scent calming every little thought that passes through Dean’s mind. He can’t help but kiss the Omega’s neck several times, but stops himself there.

It wouldn’t be good.

“The way television makes food preparation seem easy is highly unsettling,” Cas mutters, bringing Dean back to himself—he’s nosing on Cas’s pulse again. He glances at the television. They’ve switched from movies to shows now, and they’re showing some dude preparing dishes with a motorcycle in the background.

“It’s television, Cas,” he murmurs, kissing his Handler’s throat before leaning back against the couch, letting the back of his head rest against its backrest. “They’ve gotta sell the drama. How else are they supposed to make money?”

“ _Still_ ,” Cas insists, shifting so he’s facing the other end of the couch, tucking his head against Dean’s shoulder. “It makes you think just how convoluted our standards are.”

“Notions of perfection,” the Alpha murmurs, relishing in the sensation of having his Omega scent him and leave his own scent on his body. “The media does that to you, I guess. See why we have feminist groups, Omega rights activists, and so on? Why so many people just seem to want to pull the world from under the Alphas?”

Cas hums, pressing his lips against Dean’s throat. “But it never seems enough.”

“It never will be. People move, but they don’t really _work_ , do they? They’re still too scared of how it’s going to affect the twisted perspective they have on our social hierarchy. They’re afraid of how it will change hands. Every little thing you change can go both ways, and a lot of people just really aren’t brave enough to risk that going _against_ them.”

“And it makes them media feast even more.” Cas sighs, as if he feels weighed down by—oh. Of course he is. He’s a male Omega. By no means rare, but highly looked down upon, because apparently male Omegas are the most submissive under that gender trait in the hierarchy.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, no matter how much he wants to. “That’s the truth. People talk, people move—but they don’t jump. They never do. They just allow the door to open a tinny bit wider for more people to look out of and judge.”

“Do you think it’ll work? In the future, I mean. If people become braver.”

Dean pauses for a moment, thinking. “With the rate we’re going now, yeah, I can say it would. Gives the next generations the benefit of the doubt though.”

Cas chuckles at that, getting off of Dean’s lap and going into the kitchen to probably fix up dinner. Dean stays in the living room, keeping his eyes on the television, but not really seeing what’s happening.

“Cas?” he calls. When he hears the Omega’s answering hum, he continues, “how did our discussion turn from food preparation to an intrinsic view of media’s bigotry?”

He doesn’t get an answer, and for a few minutes he just sits there, thinking it over himself, waiting for a chuckle or _anything_ , because Cas always does that, but when nothing comes, he slowly grows worried.

“Cas?” he calls again, standing, turning for the kitchen. “Cas.”

The younger man is standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at nothing at all, knife gripped in a fist, his other hand limp by his side. He doesn’t respond when Dean calls his name once, twice, three times. Doesn’t even flinch when Dean taps him on the shoulder.

Dean slowly wraps his own hand around the knife, prying it away from Cas’s, and it goes easily—but, as his grip slackens, so does his body, it seems. Dean drops the knife and it clutters noisily to the floor to catch Cas before he can fall.

He’s breathing shallowly, far too fast, eyes too wild to be fully conscious, face contorted to look like he’s in a strange place between panic and calm, like his brain hasn’t focused enough to process that he’s panicking.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, wrapping his free arm around Cas’s stomach, hoisting him up—easy, he isn’t that big—leaning over his shoulder to talk directly to the Omega’s ear. “Cas? Baby? What’s wrong?”

 _Like you have to ask_.

He’s on a drop.

Dean has never had to deal with a drop of his own before, obviously, only read about it and studied about it, but the _emotions_ being pulled out of him by the sudden fluctuations in Cas’s scent catches him unprepared, because, fuck, his trainers were right: no amount of studying will ever prepare him for the real _thing_.

It’s another one of those things that highly contrast theory to practice, only much worse, because Cas is beginning to claw at his neck now—his throat is blocking itself.

Dean has to start moving, right now, lest he risk Cas _asphyxiating_.

“Cas, baby, you gotta calm down,” he says, softly, to keep Cas from panicking even worse as Dean lowers them to the floor, laying the Omega down and resting his head on Dean’s lap, reaching two fingers down Cas’s mouth and into his airway. “Don’t let me lose you, Cas, I just got you,” he continues, his emotions beginning to sing. He forces them down, because what’ll he do if he overwhelms Cas? “Come on, baby, breathe nice and deep for me.

“I just got you, baby, don’t let me lose you, please,” he says, over and over again, as he fusses about. He taps Cas’s cheeks gently, once or twice, before he continues soothing his palms on Cas’s arms, his throat, his hair. “Come on, Cas. Come back, come back to me. Don’t go, don’t yet.”

It takes an estimated ten minutes—felt like hours to Dean—before Cas takes that gasping deep breath Dean has been waiting for. He doesn’t think anymore then—he hauls Cas to sit up on his lap, shoving his face against his pulse, closing his eyes and allowing Cas to scent him and breathe him in for a good seven more.

When Cas pulls away there are tears in his eyes, but he keeps those blue orbs down, much to Dean’s chagrin.

“Hey,” Dean says, relieved, highly so, but he has to make sure Cas is completely out of his drop. “Hey, Cas, none of that. Look at me.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before he sees a pair of red-rimmed blue pair of eyes, and he smiles.

“You’re okay now, aren’t you?” he says gently. “And you’ll be okay? Come on, baby. What’s wrong? What made you drop?”

“I—” Cas cuts himself off with a frown. “I’ll tell you,” he whispers, not looking at Dean directly. “But not now. Please, Alpha? Let’s talk about something else. Let’s make dinner. Get you nice and strong. Please, Alpha?”

Dean looks at Cas worriedly for a few more minutes before nodding, agreeing to his plan, because he’s behind dinner 100 percent. Cas seems to be out of his drop now, which Dean is happy about, and he sighs.

He kisses Cas’s forehead before gesturing for Cas to get up so they can go with their plan.

 

He cares for now. A week later, everything’s a different story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, guys, what do you think? Hahahahaha.  
> Holy crap. (What do you think of Sam's intervening chapter? Hahahahaha). I've decided that all the snippets of backstories here will all be Sam's, and Dean's and Cas's and everyone else's will be published as different parts in this 'verse.
> 
> (And I know I promised this chapter was going to EXPLODE in your faces but it exploded in mine instead. I had to rewrite the whole chapter I've originally written because half of this one was missing, and I just put the plottiest part of the story for the next chapter)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can you… can you not tell me? I… I’m a selfish coward, Dean, I want to be safe. Safe from the world, safe from everything—and that’s laughable, because we’re still here, and that’s another thing entirely Dean. But I want to be safe. I want you to protect me, and to shield me, even if it’s from yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, it's Saturday.
> 
>  **Warning:** Fluffy, not too fluffy. So much angst. (Seriously. No fluff. Full on angst. Ugh.)

They don’t get up from bed the following morning. All they do is lay in bed in silence, both thinking and not thinking at the same time, enjoying each other’s scent and company. Dean is wrapped around Cas protectively, like a giant octopus who’s far too attached to be healthy. He doesn’t care. Cas doesn’t seem to mind, at all, so why should he?

He kisses Cas’s neck, once, and then another time, before simply resting his cheek against the hinge of Cas’s jaw, staring off to the window.

It’s a bright Friday morning, he muses, tightening his hold around Cas’s torso. He remembers his childhood—well, whatever parts of his childhood were left when John began molding him into this… thing at ten years old. He remembers bright Sunday mornings with Sammy, running around like the brats that they were, playing ball and bullying each other because that’s how childhood works—he wants that childhood for Sam.

Too bad it was ripped away from the both of them too early for them to do anything about it.

And John… John just _stood_ there, watching everything unfold and fall to pieces, watched as the whole world took his sons’ lives away from the both of them. He just stood there and when shit hit the fan he turned around and walked away.

His thoughts, surprisingly, don’t affect his mood as he breathes in Cas’s scent, revels in it, gets calmed by it.

He was too young to remember, but he remembers several Fridays back before Mary died, before he started memorizing the looks she would send him and later on realize it was cold rage—he remembers warm Fridays with apple pie on the table and being spoon fed by Mary, with her beautiful blonde hair and warm green eyes that made John hate looking at Dean because he was reminded by his wife.

It was at that moment that, again, Dean realizes how much the world seems to hate him, his life, his general _existence_.

The world hated him _so much_ it took everything away from him until eventually there was nothing left to hate; so it turned its cold, ugly eyes on his baby brother and began hating him, too.

“Dean,” Cas calls, breaking Dean off of his cynical rant. “Relax. You’re going to crush my ribs.”

“Oh, sorry baby,” Dean mutters, relaxing, but only minutely. Having Cas in his arms, safe, warm and snug, is the only thing grounding him at this moment; even if having Cas in his arms is one of the reasons why he _needs_ to be grounded in the first place. “How’re you feeling?”

There’s a pause, and Dean feels Cas’s cheek pull into a frown. “I’m feeling,” he begins, and then pauses, “okay. I guess.”

“Tell me for sure, Cas,” Dean says gently, softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Generally fine,” the Omega replies, and Dean tightens his arms in warning. Cas sighs, his whole body going limp, squirming and pushing and turning until he can tuck his forehead against the hollow of Dean’s throat and curl his fingers on Dean’s shirt. “I’m _physically_ okay. I’m… I’m well rested, I’m not tired, but I still am in a sense.

“And I feel… I feel lost, Dean. All my life I’ve fought this. I didn’t want to be someone who needs protection or guidance or shit. I worked so hard so I can put my foot down and _be_. And then—you—and then I—dammit.”

“Hey, take it slow,” Dean soothes, rubbing Cas’s lower back. “I won’t be able to get shit out of my system, either. Take it slow, we have all day.”

“No we don’t.” Cas sighs, pressing against Dean’s neck even more. “We have a report to make and food to cook and—and we need to plan again and—”

“Cas. Relax. We’ll get there. Feeling blindly with our hands, remember? We just got off that part.”

Cas is silent before finally chuckling, pressing his lips against the Alpha’s throat for a moment before continuing. “So, yeah, you got the violent part. I’ve been fighting, Dean, all my life—you don’t… you don’t understand how—okay. All this time I deluded myself into thinking I wouldn’t _be_ another slut for a knot but _you_ —you assbutt—you come around and you pull the rag from under my feet.

“Now I’m faceplanted on the ground, and I can’t get up—I won’t be able to until you _help me_. This is exactly what I _didn’t_ want to be, this whole time. I don’t… I don’t _hate_ it, per se, but it’s bringing up all the not good stuff I’ve been fighting my whole life, Dean, and I’m scared. I’m scared that if you let me go, if you let me fall without catching me _again_ I will never be able to pick up the pieces quickly enough or efficiently enough to save myself from utter annihilation.”

There’s silence, a silence Dean wants to fill—and he’s—

“And I know,” Cas continues. “Stop, I know you’re going to be beating yourself up about this. _Don’t_. I _know_ , okay? I know I’m not the only one at risk, I’m not the only whose heart, whose life, is on the line. I know you are too, Dean, and I’m sorry I’m piling this up and stabbing your heart with it, but can you do something for me? It isn’t small. It’s nothing like that.

“Can you… can you not tell me? I… I’m a selfish coward, Dean, I want to be _safe_. Safe from the world, safe from everything—and that’s laughable, because we’re still here, and that’s another thing entirely Dean. But I want to be safe. I want you to protect me, and to shield me, even if it’s from yourself.”

The room grows silent again.

Dean feels… he doesn’t know what he feels. His instincts are screaming at him, telling him to do what his Omega is asking, but at the same time—he’s questioning if he can. If he is able.

Cas is right—this is not a big thing. They’re doing something that goes against every single rule they have in the book. But… but Dean knows. He knows. Cas is going to leave him one day—this courting _isn’t_ going to last.

That’s the only thought that keeps him from pulling away from Cas and saying no.

No, he isn’t going to lay his needs down. He’s not going to let Cas know he needs anything at all—no, because if he does that, then Cas will be _obliged_ to provide it for him. It’s bad enough already that Dean practically forced this courting by allowing himself to be vulnerable. He doesn’t want Cas to be forced into continuing it.

Dean knows—he knows what Cas wants. And he’s _hurt_ —it’s _agony_ just thinking about, thinking how this whole courting is just going to be superficial because it’s only going to be one way. It’s only going to be from Dean.

He wants to recoil, wants to push Cas away, wants to get away from Cas and curl in around himself and _disappear_. Instead he chuckles, lighthearted, to appease Cas and calm him down—he kisses the Omega’s throat, even, when all he wants to do is to retreat and never look back on this shit ever again.

And then he laughs again, because before Cas spoke he’d been thinking of _Friday_ , but it’s not Friday, no, it’s Monday, it’s the start of the fucking week, and Cas is right—they have to work. Maybe if Dean works he can forget about the fact that, as stupid as he’d known it would be, he still _hoped_ —he thought he finally found the person he’d settle with, finally found a reason to be happy because this person was the first to ever know about the other side of the coin that is his life and _not run away from it_.

Maybe if he immerses himself in predicting how Singer or Harvelle or Turner would react to his report he’d forget that Cas made him feel _okay_ , made him feel like he had a chance to have what his father did before his mother died: a family, a home, a _nest_.

But… but no, no. That was taken from him years ago.

And, with all the shit he’s been forced to do—he’ll never deserve to get it back, not from anyone, especially not from Cas. Never mind that he’d never wanted this life in the first place—never mind that he wanted to live a normal _life_.

So, he takes a deep breath, lets it out, and presses his face against Cas’s hair, forcing his hurt and anger and resentment and disappointment and _whatever the fuck_ down, blinking away the tears that threatened to run down his face.

 _No_. Cas deserves something good—and if this is all Dean could do for him, he’d do it. He doesn’t care for himself—why should he burden anyone to? No, no. The world hates Dean Winchester. _Dean_ hates Dean Winchester.

He’ll take care of Cas—he’ll do an unreciprocated courting for all the fucks he could give.

Yeah, yeah, he’ll do that.

“Okay,” he says, proud that his voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t reflect or betray the hurt and all other shit he’s feeling. “Yeah, okay. We can do that, Cas.”

The Omega in his arms tenses for a moment, but Dean doesn’t let his mind wonder why. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift. For now, with Cas relaxed and in his arms, he can pretend that he won’t be letting him go by the end of the mission.

He can pretend that they really _could_ be mates, that one day, he’ll be able to sink his teeth onto Cas’s neck, marking him as _his_ , letting Cas be the person Dean trusts and loves more than anything else in the world.

For now, he can forget that Cas just proved his biggest fear.

No one cares.

 

It takes one more whole day before both Dean and Cas decide they’re tired of simply lying around and not doing anything at all. Cas goes straight for the office after showering, and when Dean passes by to give him a cup of coffee he sees that Cas has his face glued to the computer screen, fingers flying over the keys—digitalizing Dean’s transcribed version of the whole Adler ordeal.

Yesterday evening, while eating dinner, Dean realizes that whatever he does he _can’t_ —that shit hurts too much for him not to do anything to distract himself. So, with Cas curled up in his lap, scenting him, Dean had brought out a piece of paper and a pen to begin recounting his solo fight, which ended up taking the whole evening and way into midmorning. He’d had to keep rewriting so many things, eventually deciding on using not so ridiculous code words so Cas will still include it into the report but not ask questions as to what they mean.

And then Dean had almost panicked when Cas had curled around his torso in the couch, like they did on Sunday, as they watched Lord of the Rings all over again.

Castiel Novak isn’t only ruthless as a Handler, Dean decides, leaning against the doorjamb and watching the man in question busy himself with their update for their bosses. He’s ruthless as a person, too—never mind that Dean deserves it (because he does, he _knows_ he does).

“What are we going to do next?” Cas asks, snapping Dean out of his reverie. He focuses on Cas then, really looks at him, and shrugs.

He’s contacted someone the night before—when he had been sure Cas was asleep and wouldn’t wake if Dean got out of bed. He did, replaced his body with his pillow, and walked towards the window. He’d only realized then that he had something he could have utilized earlier—maybe not for finding Adam, but for making a lot of shit _easier_.

He had a _friend_.

He had Henry.

So, he’d brought out his phone—his personal one, the phone with only about a dozen people registered—and called the one person he didn’t think of this whole time.

“Henry,” he’d said as greeting, noting the utter silence on the other end of the line.

“Something tells me I wouldn’t like the reason you’re calling,” the man answers—and Dean has to stop, to backtrack, because that voice sounds _familiar_ —not just in the, ‘ _hey, we’ve known each other for years but we lost contact, nice to hear from you again!_ ’ way but, rather, in the ‘ _I’ve been listening to your voice from somewhere this whole time. Was that you?_ ’ kind of way, but he’d shrugged it off.

“Of course you wouldn’t like it,” Dean answers, suddenly feeling tired and out of depth. He glances at the Omega on the bed, who’s still sleeping soundly, quiet. He’s never snored. “I’m sure you know about Adam.”

Dean can’t see shit, but he knows Henry enough to know that something on the other end of the call had shifted. “Yeah, ‘course,” Henry’d muttered. Dean had felt something ominous. “What about it?”

“Well I need your help,” Dean had announced. No need to go around the issue—they’d be better if he went straight to his point. Less people to get hurt. “I know, I promised I’d help you bug off, Hen, but _seriously_. I need your help.”

Henry had chuckled, and it had made Dean feel a little bit better for wanting to drag his old friend back into the life he’d escaped. “Alright. How do you want me?”

And, basically, that’s how Dean had gotten a scheduled meet-up with Henry at Rosie’s tonight at eight.

“I’ve enlisted the help of an expert,” Dean tells Cas, back to the present now, watching closely as Cas looks up at him sharply, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean,” Dean begins, pauses, and then continues, “I’ve asked for someone else’s help. If Zachariah’s info can be trusted, then this Jackson de Ville’s going to play right by our hands if we did shit right. The person I called help from is an expert in manipulation. It’d be one hell less of a mess.”

Cas is still frowning, now resting his chin on his twined fingers. “Has this been… _approved_ by Seraph?”

Dean rolls his eyes. Says, “screw what Seraph _thinks_ , or _says,_ Cas. You saw what torture did to my headspace. If Henry doesn’t cut it, we can always bring out knives and knuckles.”

“Henry? Oh, so you’ve asked his help _outside_ of Seraph? How do we know he’s trustworthy, Dean?”

“I know him.” Dean says is quietly, surely, filled with enough conviction as he stares at Cas, green eyes challenging blue. _This_ had changed—normally Cas would simply trust Dean with these decisions, never mind that they had to pass through him first because a) he’s the Hander and b) Dean’s a fucking idiot.

Cas breaks eye contact first, looking at the screen for one moment before looking back up to Dean and he suddenly looks _tired_ —like he had the right to, like he wasn’t the one who demanded a one-way courting just two days ago.

But Dean can’t hold that against him, now can he? He’s here to save his _brother_ , not take a fucking _mate_.

So, defeated, he says, “what?” before Cas can talk.

“What _happened,_ Dean?” he asks, breathless and tired, running a hand through his hair—disheveling it further. “Where did we go?”

Dean wants to say “farther” and leave it at that but he simply sighs, moves forward, reaching over the table to cup Cas’s face. “Forward,” he says instead, because it won’t do good to point out that they will _never_ move forward, not with this shit. “Why?”

“You’re—you’re. I don’t know, Dean. Is—is this—”

Dean plasters a soft smile onto his face, even though all he wants is to pull away and grimace. “No, baby,” he coos, kissing Cas soundly before retreating, “it’s not that. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Alpha keeps smiling, even as Cas squints his eyes at him, studying him closely, even as he sighs and closes his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right,” he whispers, opening his eyes and smiling back at Dean, finally. “I’m… I must just be overreacting. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he begins, about to say, ‘ _we’re both scared and that’s normal_ ’ but suddenly remembers that Cas had _asked_ him not to so continues instead with “you’re afraid. It’s okay.”

“Dean—”

“Cas. Don’t you have a report to finish?”

And that’s that. Cas looks down, back up, and then turns his complete attention back to the computer screen in front of him. Dean watches for a few more seconds before turning on his heel and walking out of the room, taking out his own laptop and setting up camp in the living room to check his own list of shit to do.

The first thing he does is send a long, detailed message to all his friends: creating a merged mail file with the exact same contents.

 

**DRCW (Ho-c10914)**

_Hey guys. You still alive?_

_Who’s gone into missions and who hasn’t? This mission sucks, let me tell you. But it’s getting better—hopefully it gets wrapped up in a week or two._

_This place is_ small _. Remember Lawrence, Sammy? Oh wait—no you don’t. This place reminds of Lawrence. It’s small and quaint and everyone is in everyone else’s business. It’s actually kind of scary, living in this kind of place, especially with the amount of non privacy you get, but hey! At least we’re having a little fun._

 _There’s this bar called Rosie’s, and it’s_ fine _. Remember the old Roadhouse, Jo? Ash? Ellen’s little pub? You know, that ‘_ before’ _era where we were all innocent kids who knew jack about Seraph? (Nah, me neither) but it’s nostalgic, seeing that bar and remembering the marshmallow fights and hot cocoa._

_But the whole town, no matter how pretty, it seems to be under some dude code named ‘FKOH’s’ thumb. It’s relatively peaceful, but news reports say otherwise. I mean, you dig too deep into the place’s belly and you become shark feed apparently._

_Sixteen people have been killed ever since EZ Tech settled in this town, nine of them journalists who wanted to know every little thing about the company. The rest were past employees who quit and applied in other companies—apparently rumors flew that they were letting the other companies know the secrets behind EZ Tech._

_I don’t say I could blame them, the company is highly suspicious, man._

_I’m meeting an expert tonight—hopefully we can work things out about this whole mission._

_So, how are you guys? Got any new news for me? –Dean_

(D0127)

 

He sends it, and then only had to wait for about two minutes before he gets his answer.

 

**JBNH (Ha-c N/A)**

_WINCHESTER YOU IDIOT_

_A month. It took you a month to make a message? You couldn’t even_ call _you fucking idiot? All we have is Sam bitch facing at all of us and letting us know you called him but you didn’t even take a fucking break to call_ us _? You are despicable._

_I hate you._

_Just got drafted for the next Host (some guy called Rex Martin) so I guess no, technically I’m not in any mission yet. Yours seem to be topping off to the freaking climax. (And I hope whoever this expert is really is an expert. I don’t want to see your body in a box yet, Dean, no matter how much I want to put it there sometimes)_

_I won’t talk for the others._

_See you in… what, three weeks, tops? My mission doesn’t get the go-ahead until the end of October. –Jo_

(J0407)

 

He laughs at Jo’s message, and types in a personal note to her before sending it, receiving an answer from Benny at the same time.

 

**B##L (Fl – c13492)**

_Hey there, brother._

_Long note._

_I was just wondering about your Handler—mine doesn’t seem impressed that he’s stuck with Dean fucking Winchester’s friend._

_Anyway, on a run for some bank holding a big gala on Friday. Don’t know why they’d send us days early, but better sure and sorry, I guess._

_Get worked up, brother. It’s good for you. –Benny_

(B1217)

 

Dean sends Benny a note to take care, completely ignoring the question about Cas. If they think he still doesn’t _like_ having a Handler (despite it being a month now) then they won’t question if he’ll end up getting shit faced when it’s over. They won’t think it’s because of a broken heart, they’ll think it’s because of an undelivered broken nose.

Yeah, that sounds nice.

And Dean continues to read on—at one point even conjuring Sam’s Bitchface #247 because that’s how his brother’s message looks like if it’s put into a facial expression—and sending notes and deleting threads every now and then.

It takes him the better part of the morning, simply smiling at Cas and thanking him when the Omega brings his lunch to the couch, not even really thinking about it when he returns Cas’s kiss for a few moments.

And then he pushes Cas away, ignores the faint hurt look, and pulls him down, sharing their food—much like they have that first morning.

They’re generally quiet, only sharing the occasional word, and then Dean is telling Cas to go prepare for their meeting.

He feels oddly nervous, and he’s not sure why: whether it’s for _Henry_ or for Cas. So what if they don’t get along? They’re on a _job_ , and Dean had asked for Henry’s help. The only thing that can set them back would be Henry disliking Cas so much that he’d refuse to work with them—which seems likely to happen, because before Henry liked Dean he _disliked_ the Alpha, simply for being the sarcastic little shit he usually is.

When Cas reappears in the living room, now showered and dressed, Dean sits him down on the couch again, taking a deep breath to try and… _brief_ his Handler on the meeting.

“So,” he begins. “Henry’s a little… on the grumpy side of things,” he explains. “He didn’t have the best life—but who of us did?—and he’s… he’s a douchebag, to keep the story short. And you might not like him, not for a while, but please, please, please Cas, tolerate him—just long enough for him to help us with this job.”

Cas stares at him for a little while before shrugging. “Sure.”

“I hope shit would be that simple.”

“It could be if we wanted it.”

Dean sighs. Says, “right.” Goes upstairs and prepares for the meeting with Henry.

He feels a little sick, if not tired, but he doesn’t want to hold this back. He doesn’t want to delay any more than he has to. Adam is top priority here—not him, not Cas. Henry… if he has to, he’ll die so Hen doesn’t face the consequences of doing this.

As he stands under the spray of warm water, though, his eyes closed and muscles lax, he finally admits something he’s been denying, this whole time—maybe he’s been thinking it, dreaming about it… subconsciously planning on it ever since he was a child, ever since he allowed his father to wrap his little chubby fingers around the hilt of that knife and plunge it deep into a sick man’s throat.

Dean just wants this shit to end.

He wants everything to end.

And, if it’s true, that Hell has a special place for people like him, then he’d accept that fate with a smirk.

 

**..--..**

 

Castiel watches warily as Dean moves around the room, his own fingers deftly buttoning up his shirt. He doesn’t know where they’re going to meet this ‘Henry’, but Dean had asked him to dress nice, so Castiel did: he’s wearing a pair of slacks and a blue button-down.

Dean is whistling a low tune, a little too breathy, and he hasn’t set his eyes on Castiel at _all_ since the Omega entered the shower. He feels like he deserves it—he _knows_ he deserves it. He’s asked for too much. Again.

And now, with Dean being the best thing to ever happen to him, he’s ruined it. He had been honest, though, saying he was a selfish coward, because he didn’t—doesn’t—think he’ll ever be able to commit himself to—not just _Dean_ , anyone at all. Okay, so _if_ they go through with this courtship, and he and Dean mate, he _will_ , he will devote himself and his life to Dean, because he doesn’t mean it like he can’t _stick to one person_ , it’s just that he believes he _won’t be able to_.

And that isn’t fair for Dean.

The Alpha deserves someone who isn’t as fucked up and broken as Castiel is, anyway—but. But Dean is fucked up and broken, too, isn’t he? Why can’t they be shitty people together?

Castiel’s mind just suddenly freezes when he meets a pair of green eyes—warm but unreadable. Dean has a patient smile on his face, his hand coming towards the Omega, and he can’t help but close his eyes at the contact. Dean cups his cheek and gives him a sweet, chaste kiss, pulling away just a bit and gathering Castiel into his arms.

Maybe he shouldn’t worry—he’s laid out his piece. Dean is still treating him like they’re in courtship, and maybe he should just allow himself this reprieve and be a little more self-indulgent, self-centered, and selfish. He can keep Dean, he can _have_ Dean. He can have this.

Dean isn’t asking for anything in return—he isn’t yet. And maybe he won’t, if he chooses to continue with this courting. But if he doesn’t then… well, that’s going to be Castiel’s own fault, for thinking of himself in a relationship where they should be thinking of each other.

They’ll cross that bridge when they get there.

And hopefully, this doesn’t burn everything else down while they’re right in the middle.

 

The drive is silent.

Castiel clutches on to Dean’s hand on the gearstick, holding on hard enough that he’s sure Dean will have crescent-shaped wounds if he lets go. He doesn’t intend on doing that, at all, if Dean doesn’t even give back a _fraction_ of his grip.

The Alpha’s hand is relaxed, is barely even holding on to the head of the stick. He isn’t even squeezing Castiel’s hand in return, and it makes Castiel a little antsy. What’s wrong? What happened? What will—

And then it only hits him then that maybe nothing has happened… yet. It’s about to happen.

He’s never really asked how Dean knows Henry, has he? What the nature of their relationship is… was… whatever? Why they’re asking for the stranger’s help when they could just as easily contact someone from Seraph and ask them?

It makes him feel sick just thinking about it.

What if… what if Dean is enamored with this man? What even _is_ this man? Will he—maybe Dean’s going to leave Castiel for this man now. Maybe _Henry_ is going to allow a two-way courting to happen, whether he’s an Alpha or not, because… because maybe Henry’s the one Dean deserves.

He is aware his scent changes when Dean glances at him, but doesn’t say or do anything. He isn’t shaking Castiel’s hand off yet, but he isn’t holding onto it either—so what’s happening? What should—

“I don’t think I’d like to be in this meeting,” he says, and that’s the _exact opposite_ of all the shit he wants to say. He wants to _stay_ , to make sure Henry isn’t a threat to his and Dean’s courtship, no matter how twisted and cruel and convoluted that makes him.

Dean doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “I know. I can drop you off somewhere else if you want,” he answers, his fingers flexing, but he doesn’t move his hand away. “Where do you want to go?”

“No, I—” Castiel begins again, and then stops—because _what_ does he want? He wants Dean, all to himself, and that’s that. “No, never mind. It’s okay. Let’s go.”

“Cas—”

“Dean, I’m serious. It’s okay. Let’s go.”

Dean turns his head to look at Castiel, and the latter is worried they’ll crash, but Dean just concentrates on the road again without saying anything. He squeezes Castiel’s hand for a moment, relieving the Omega so dearly that he’s surprised, his grip going lax for a moment. It’s enough for Dean to pull his hand away.

Castiel watches in awed and honestly agonized silence as Dean absently rubs his palm against the denim covering his thigh, patting his knee for a moment before reaching for the gearstick, shifting it for a moment, and the car stops.

“Alright, we’re here.”

Castiel looks up, surprised, and sees they’re at Rosie’s. He looks at Dean in slight panic, aggravating himself further when he sees that Dean’s already out of the car and closing his door. He scrambles to get out, too, reaching for Dean’s arm and clutching at him possessively when he’s close enough to.

Dean shrugs him off, and he lets out a small whimper but pulls back when Dean encircles his arm around his waist.

“What?” Dean asks, looking at him, confused and a little irritated. “Come on, Cas.” He wraps an arm around Castiel again, kissing him on the temple when the Omega doesn’t fight before pulling both of them into the bar.

It’s just as crowded and noisy and rowdy as the last time he was here, and Castiel immediately plasters himself even _closer_ to Dean in fear that what happened then will happen again.

He doesn’t want to drop—not again, not after the delay his first (and for the moment last) one did. It goes against his training to do this, to cram himself in a small place, against another body—he won’t be able to protect himself if he’s in this posture, because he won’t be able to move properly to fight or pull out weapons.

But he doesn’t stop, though. He keeps himself by Dean’s side, not letting the Alpha’s jacket off, allowing himself to dream that he’s okay, that the scent of the Alpha by his side is _his_.

Jenna greets them halfway through, asks Castiel how he is and how he’s feeling, to which Castiel answers politely but curtly, because Dean isn’t paying attention—he’s gone rigid, a stone line against Castiel’s side.

He reaches up to Dean’s ear, worried. “Dean? What’s wrong?”

The Alpha doesn’t answer, just pulls them even more aggressively over to the bar, where he can see several costumers sitting and drinking and talking. But Dean doesn’t lead them there, he pulls Cas towards a booth where he can see a figure that makes his stomach clench uneasily.

“Dean?” he tries again, trying to pull away from Dean’s almost unbearably tight hold. “Dean you’re hurting me.”

But Dean isn’t listening, not to him at least—he’s looking at the person on the booth, who’s now looking at them… no, at _Castiel_ , and he feels like the world has frozen over because _he knows that face_. Dean only stops moving when they’re right beside the table of the booth, Dean standing between Castiel and ‘Henry’, and the Omega stops his tears and his sobs as he breathes in the man’s scent.

Dean’s hand is fisted around Castiel’s hip, and it hurts, but he can’t concentrate on that.

He’s far too busy looking at the person looking up at him, on this booth, who is apparently Dean’s ‘expert’.

“So,” Dean begins, a growl to his voice that Castiel has never heard of it.

“James,” Castiel breathes, because it’s all he can think of—it’s the only thought left in his mind.

 _James_. _James… he’s alive. He’s… he’s well. He looks handsome, in his shirt and pants, looking up like. James. He’s—_

He stops himself there, panic rising like a bubble up his throat, and he clings onto Dean ever so tightly.

Of course. It’s funny, isn’t it? How the one person he’s been looking for will be the same person he’ll lose his world to.

Life is a cruel, fickle thing.

“Hello, Castiel.”

**..--..**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The codes  
>  **Sender's initials (Classification-c[case]number**  
>  **Sender's agent code**  
>  \--  
> I cried while writing this. Hahahahaha. (But mostly it was also thanks to the season finale. I wanna curse. Insert curse here.)  
> \--  
> Anyway, I'd just want to thank you all again, for continuing on reading this little story of mine :3  
> \--  
> Tell me what you think of this chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guy’s right. Yeah, of course he’s right. Dean called him, last night, hoping to get his questions answered and this fucking mission over with. He didn’t call him for a meeting so he could pose even more questions and confuse his fucking life even worse than it already is. When Henry walked out back then, Dean thought he’d never see him again—that he’d find his brother and they’d live happily ever after, pretend Seraph was just a nightmare.
> 
> Now… now he’s proven wrong, because Henry’s brother is his fucking Handler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :)
> 
> So I've added this to the series it belongs to now. About 3/4 of this chapter references to a part of Dean's life that may be a little confusing. If you want to read about it before reading this chapter, you can go ahead. I posted it yesterday--it's part two of this series, or you can read it [ at this link, ](http://peur-van-dunkelheit.tumblr.com/post/87498079361/the-great-escape-pre-spirals) too.
> 
> Enjoy!!

All he can do for a solid seven minutes—he’s a trained agent, stop blaming him for being overly conscious—but stare, gape, and stare.

You know how there are times when you look at something big, something _gigantic_ that can affect the whole of your measly little life, and you’re scared and antsy and nervous, and it turns out to be something you never expected?

Well, that’s exactly how Dean Winchester feels, his arm limply around one dark haired man with bright blue eyes, face slack in unhindered confusion at _another_ dark haired man with bright blue eyes.

Henry—James—Jimmy isn’t looking at him, he’s looking at Cas, _who knows him, who looks like him, and for some reason this is beginning to look like some soap opera_.

“Fucking Christ, Jimmy,” Dean hisses, his arm unconsciously tightening around Cas’s waist as he tries to make sense of just what the fuck is happening— _is this really fucking happening—are you fucking kidding me right now—shit sticks on pretzel cheese WHAT THE HELL_ —because _nothing_ positive or sensible is going in his head.

His mind is replaying his time in Seraph, from the moment he met Jimmy Shurley to the time he helped him escape and he officially became Henry Zinger, Adam Milligan’s guardian (who is not, in any way, related to his mother or father) and then Cas—

He shoves his fingers through his hair, his eyes widening in a light bulb-lighting-up situation. He looks at Cas—who’s still looking at Henry/Jimmy—and then he looks at the latter who’s staring at his Handler.

“Alright,” he begins, “before we get into any sort of shit storm, can I ask you two something?” He waits until they’re both looking at him before he clears his throat. “Jimmy—” he looks at the man on the table “—I grew up staring right back at you. And Cas—” he doesn’t look, exactly, just pulls Cas closer to his body where he’s _warm and safe_ “—I’ve been living with that for a month now.

“Please, I don’t’ think my brain will be able to function if you fucking _stare_ at each other like that. It’s—”

“Gives you the heebie-jeebies, doesn’t it,” Jimmy remarks, but looks away—finally meeting Dean’s eyes before gesturing at the seats in front of him. “I’m guessing you have a lot of questions?”

Dean smirks, and pushes Cas inside the booth—much to the Omega’s ignored protestations—and slides in himself right after. “A fuck load,” he answers. And then he sighs, continues, “I’m sure you have questions for me, too.”

Cas beats both Alphas to the punch, though, his eyes still trained on the man in front of him. “James. You’re _alive_.”

“It’s actually Henry now,” Henry corrects, glancing at Dean for a second. “We’ll explain later. Yes, I’m alive. Surprisingly, so are you. _Un_ surprisingly, you’re working for Seraph.” He glances at Dean, longer this time, their look loaded with the same fucking thing that led to Jimmy becoming ‘Henry’ in the first place, nine years ago.

“He’s the expert you were talking about,” Cas points out, looking at Dean for a moment before his eyes train on Henry again. “How are you an expert in this field—Henry? The last time I saw you—”

He freezes, his eyes turning wide towards Dean, but Dean simply flashes him a smile.

“I think Dean’s gathered enough information now. Connected the dots. He knows.” Henry gives Dean one of the same smiles he used to, when they were younger.

“He— _what_?” the Omega splutters. Dean can feel him begin to shake.

“Don’t you, Dean?” Henry asks pleasantly.

He keeps his eyes trained on the older Alpha, one arm snaking around Cas’s waist and pulling him to his side. He feels… he doesn’t know how he feels. He’s confused, first of all. A little angry. Maybe… maybe a little triumphant, too (at least they’ve managed to prove one fucking mystery correct). But worst of all, he feels… he feels numb.

Just like those first few months after Henry walked away, when Dean had been stuck all on his own garnering so many fucking _ribbons_ for that time. He hates it. Hates _himself_ even more for it.

He opens his mouth—about to talk, say something, _anything_ , but he’s saved by the waitress coming over and asking them for their orders. It isn’t Jenna ( _thank God_ ) but it’s someone else, a pretty blonde little thing that Dean would’ve flirted to death at any other instance than the one he is in now. They order drinks first, sending her away as quickly as possible. It’s obvious how she isn’t comfortable with the tension in the table.

Two Alphas, one Omega? That usually spells trouble for anyone—and everyone—around.

If only that’s the problem.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean finally says, answering Henry’s question twelve minutes of silence later. “And I think we all know the amount of bullshit Seraph’s been piling on top of us now.”

“ _You_ , Dean,” Henry corrects gently. His eyes are sharp, focused, but it’s on Dean—it’s like he isn’t paying attention to _his fucking younger brother_ at all. “Seraph has been piling bullshit on _you_. I walked out, remember?”

“At what cost, though?” Dean challenged. “Your younger brother? I thought _he was_ the reason you walked out in the first place.”

Cas tenses from beside him again, but Dean ignores him for now. Instead he pulls him even closer until he can practically feel the shift of fabric between their bodies every time either of them breathes.

“This is unsolicited hostility, Dean,” Henry says, raising an eyebrow. “May I remind you that _you’re_ the one who called me in the first place? _You_ need my help, Dean. _You_ rang that number.”

The guy’s right. Yeah, of _course_ he’s right. Dean called him, last night, hoping to get his questions answered and this fucking mission over with. He didn’t call him for a meeting so he could pose even more questions and confuse his fucking life even worse than it already is. When Henry walked out back then, Dean thought he’d never see him again—that he’d find his brother and they’d live happily ever after, pretend Seraph was just a nightmare.

Now… now he’s proven wrong, because Henry’s brother _is_ his fucking Handler.

He doesn’t know what he wants to do—get angry? Get to the point? Leave them for their fucking reunion?

His mind is brought to a screeching halt when Cas speaks, softly, voice small. Dean _hates_ that he has to talk like that—this whole time he’d been anything but an Omega, and now… now he’s _this_ , a fragile little thing hiding half his face against an Alpha’s shoulder.

“How long?” he asks, looking up at Henry. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Seventeen years,” Henry answers, his voice just as soft and gentle as he turns his blue eyes towards Cas. “We met when I was sixteen.”

“That was—”

“Yeah, pup, the same year they took you.”

At the mention of his childhood kidnapping, Cas tenses, shifting his head and burrowing his face against Dean’s neck, breathing his scent in for a few minutes before he pulls himself together. He looks at his older brother again. “They had me for eight years,” he says—more like _squeaks_ , actually—“before he—Gabe—uh—found me. Took me… back.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Henry mutters darkly at the same time Dean snorts derisively.

“They got me _out_ , Ji—Henry. I think that’s what matters.”

Henry sends Dean a thoughtful look, raising an eyebrow. “No,” Dean says with finality as Henry opens his mouth to talk. “No, Hen, this isn’t happening.”

Henry smiles. “I think it is.” To Cas he asks, “Do you want to know exactly _how_ Dean Winchester became a legend?”

“ _Henry,”_ Dean hisses in warning, but the older Alpha ignores him, plowing on despite it.

“If I’m computing shit right, then it must have been… one, two years before—” he snorts “— _Seraph_ ‘took you in’. I don’t know what they called it then—what was it? Dean?”

Dean glared at Henry for a moment or two before sighing in defeat. Let this story get fucking out. He can tell himself at the end of the mission it’s the reason Cas left him. “Gates of Hell,” he mutters, looking away from his companions to the rest of the filling bar. “It was called Gates of Hell afterwards.”

“I know that,” Cas answers after a lengthy silence. “I was already there, when the codename Gates of Hell came popping up around the place.”

“Do you know what it _entails_?” Henry asks, looking excited all of a sudden. “Do you know what happened that they dubbed Gates of Hell—and wow, dramatic as all Hell, too. Who gave the fucking name?”

“Cohen,” Dean mutters.

“ _Cohen_? That… wasn’t he a department _head_?”

“Became head poncho when we agreed to the Rack, remember?” Dean asks, looking back at Henry. “They took Naomi down and put him up. He named your escape the ‘Gates of Hell’ and gave me the fucking _credit_ of killing… killing…”

“What happened?” the older Alpha asks, his eyes suddenly sad. “Afterwards, when you got back. What happened to… them?”

“Given Hunter’s burials. I set their pyres. Started the fires, said all the shit that had to be said. I had to do it on my own, Henry. Everyone else was _dead_.”

“Did you…?”

“No.”

“Then— _oh_.”

“Yeah. _Him_. And he gave me a fucking award for ‘passing’ his fucking tests. I was all on my own, Henry, and they were recruiting Sam. I couldn’t get you all _out_ , how the fuck did _she_ expect me to get Sam out of there?”

Henry is quiet, his eyes sad, looking down at the table. Their drinks arrive and they all drink in silence, neither of the Alphas acknowledging that there’s an Omega with them until— _of course_ —he talks.

“That’s why you became a legend?” Cas asks softly, his face buried against Dean’s neck. “You killed your friends and you became a legend?”

“It was the thought,” Dean answers, swallowing his beer down, flagging the waitress for another. “It was the thought that I killed them. I didn’t I killed five others. Not them.”

“I kept wishing you left with me,” Henry says quietly, his eyes trained on his beer as their new set of bottles are delivered to their booth. “The first few years, I wished you would leave on your own, come find me. And then… and then I don’t know. Find my brother. Mate him or something. Pretend Seraph never happened to either of us.

“And then you called. For the first time in years, I heard of the one person I’ve almost convinced myself was actually my younger brother. You told me about Adam.”

Henry’s eyes are hard now, as they land on Dean. If he had been someone Dean didn’t know, he’d have thought Henry was having some emotional imbalance or something. His _emotional_ spectrum was often fucking terrifying, Henry’s blue eyes look between Dean and Cas, back and forth, once, twice, thrice, before he snorts suddenly.

“One of my fantasies came true, didn’t it?” he asks. He doesn’t sound affronted or angry, but he’s been able to keep his emotions on firm lockdown before—Dean doesn’t put it past him to do it again right now. “You’re mated.”

“Do we _scent_ mated?” Dean growls in answer, but he pulls Cas closer to his body anyway. “I don’t think so.”

“But you’re almost there,” Henry challenges, his eyes flicking to his younger brother once before concentrating on Dean with an almost scary intensity. “All you need is a Mark somewhere, and you’re officially mated.”

Courtship is a fucking scary thing to do, or start.

Why? Because there are _steps_ you have to undertake in order to have a complete bond—the bond that will bind you and your mate together so compatibly that if you try to break it you’ll either die or go crazy.

 First you have to be comfortable enough to live together for a month. (They’ve been there, done that.) And then you have to trust each other enough to be vulnerable to one another. (Good fucking job, Dean.) Then there’s allowing one to provide for the other. (Cas just brought him fucking breakfast because Dean was exhausted. But, you know, technicalities, excuses—they don’t matter. What matters is the fucking _rule_.)

“It happened before the courting,” Cas mutters in answer. “We haven’t courted—we haven’t even lived together long enough to have our scents mix naturally. That isn’t possible.”

That thought pings in Dean’s head—yeah, yeah, that’s right. There’s no loophole to the sex, unless—

“You were drugged,” Dean corrects, sighing in… defeat. Yeah, he feels defeated. He feels heavy and scared and guilty. If he _hadn’t_ bared his neck that night then Cas wouldn’t have to be forced to _mate_ him lest he _never_ get a real mate. “That’s the loophole to the sex, isn’t it? If it was an _unnatural_ Heat.”

“We didn’t even _have_ sex.”

“You’re almost there,” Henry reiterates, clearly and finally, interrupting whatever debate Cas and Dean is about to have. “You’re almost there and there is no more loopholes or whatnot. Castiel. Show me your wrist.”

He turns his eyes to Cas then, looking expectant. The Omega hesitates by Dean’s side, but he sticks his right wrist out anyway, pulling his sleeve back in the same movement to show his older brother. Both Alphas’ eyes are easily drawn towards the spiraling dark band around the Omega’s exposed wrist, both feeling somehow sick at the sight of it even though _they_ aren’t the ones afflicted by it.

“You’re on the Spiral,” Henry says.

“Thanks, Captain obvious,” Dean mutters, itching to cover Cas’s body with his own and protect him and save him and keep him safe. His instincts are screaming at him, telling him to _keepnestsavemate_. He curls his free hand into a fist, concentrating on the sting of his nails cutting against the skin of his palm to keep him from succumbing to his baser tendencies and possibly offend both his (almost) mate and (almost) brother-in-law.

“No, I mean, why are you fighting the mating, Castiel? Dean can _save_ you. And he _will_. Why don’t you let him?”

Dean freezes up.

Henry is asking the one thing he wants to ask, but can’t find the guts to. He’s asking Cas why they can’t mate. Dean isn’t sure if he wants to know—if he can survive knowing. Now, with the input of an unmated Alpha on their courtship, Dean is sure that neither of them will ever be able to find a compatible enough mate. Their bodies have synced up already—they’ll be looking for each other, always, whether they mate with other people or not.

He wants to run, right now, somewhere far away, to curl around himself and never come back to the real world—but he has to face this.

He has to do this one thing for Cas. It’s… it’s the least he can do. He has to listen. That’s all he really has to do—listen to all the reasons why the one person he _wants_ doesn’t want him back the same way, all the reasons why he doesn’t deserve the happiness he knows only Cas can and will be able to bring him.

So he sucks it up and turns to Cas, too, but he still keeps his arm around the Omega when he reaches out to fist a hand on his shirt. Cas looks between the two Alphas, his blue eyes bright and wide, before he sighs.

He drops his hand, holding on to Dean’s thigh possessively, before looking down at the table.

He flicks his eyes up to Henry once, before looking at the chipped surface of wood again. “When I disappeared,” he begins, his voice small and scared. “I—I wanted to tell Dean _later_. But… but you deserve to know, Dean.” Blue eyes meet green for a second before falling to the table again. “They took me when I was seven.

“I… At first they left me alone. No one talked to me. No one even so much as _looked_ at me. I stayed… I stayed wherever Richard Roman did. He… He made sure no one came near me. I was too small to be a problem anyway. Cried too much, made too much noise to drag around inconspicuously.

“All that… all that changed when I met his brother. I was thirteen. The… the week before I presented he’d began scenting me, started courting me.” He shudders a bit, leaning closer to Dean, his cursed Alpha instincts, moves closer to him automatically, hooking his chin over Cas’s head. “He doesn’t smell anywhere as nice as you,” Cas mutters. “Anyway. When I had my first Heat he… he tried to… sleep with me.

“I said no, had a fit. They dragged him away from me.

“After that they started putting me to work.” Cas pulls his hand away from Dean’s thigh and snakes it around Dean’s waist, pushing his face up against Dean’s neck even more before he turns it slightly, looking at his brother. “There were so many children, Henry, you don’t understand. I _tricked_ them into falling into Collectors’ hands and… and I couldn’t take the guilt.

“So I wanted out. I had to get out, as soon as I fucking can. When Gabe came around and told me to help him kill Dick Roman I _did_. I wanted to get out of that life, I wanted to get _out_. I… I don’t think I can stomach the thought of finding myself a _home_ after taking so many innocent children away from _theirs_.

“Dean—Dean, I’m sorry. I—I know, you thought it was you, again, didn’t you? No, no, it’s not your fault.”

To Dean’s horror, Cas starts _sobbing_. He brings his free hand up and cradles the back of his neck, kissing his forehead before he has to simply tilt his chin as Cas sobs into his neck, clinging onto him in desperation. He shares a look at Henry, who’s looking at the both of them sadly, and he swallows.

So he was wrong.

Cas _wants_ him, he does.

Except Cas doesn’t think he deserves to be wanted, which he does, he so perfectly does.

Dean was right: they are two fucked up people.

They were both wrong.

They deserve each other.

The two Alphas nurse their beers in silence as Cas begins to calm down, wiping his face with the back of his hand like a child. He whispers an apology to the both of them, which they all ignore in favor of drinking the rest of their alcohol.

All three of them are silent until Dean clears his throat. He looks at Henry.

“Can we talk about the reason I called you here now?” he asks, his voice soft and gentle. He drops a quick kiss to Cas’s mouth, just to tell him he hasn’t been forgotten. “I just… I think we all need a break from all the emotional shit.”

“I know why you called, Dean,” Henry says, nodding in agreement to his sentiment. “It’s because of Adam, isn’t it?”

“How _do_ you know Dean’s brother?” Cas asks, his voice thick but steady all the same.

“Dean called me up six years ago, the first time he learned about Adam. At first I thought it was Sam, and I _hoped_ it was Sam, because… Gates of Hell, but no dice. Asked me to look out for the kid, so I did—I… I’m courting him,” he added, looking at Dean as if challenging the younger Alpha to say anything regarding the decision. “And then Adam went missing.”

“You’re courting my brother,” Dean says flatly, his green eyes scrutinizing the Alpha in front of him. “ _You’re courting Adam._ ”

“Relax, Alpha. We’re barely starting. I told you he went missing. I don’t live with Adam, Dean, I live on the other side of the city. I see him every day, sure, but _we don’t live together_. He just moved in.”

“You’ve been dating him.”

Henry hesitates at that, his eyes flicking over to Cas for a second. “Yeah. Two years now. And maybe now’s not the time, but should I remind you that… I don’t know, _you’re_ courting _my_ baby brother?”

“At least I didn’t _fantasize_ about you mating mine.”

Henry’s answering smile is faint. “We’ve slept together.”

“ _You do know that he’s a decade younger than you,_ right?”

The older Alpha snorts, shaking his head. “Yes, I do. He reminds me every day, thank you very much. But if you’re going to ask—no, Dean, I’ve never slept with Adam during his Heat. Actually, I clear whenever he has it—you know, unplanned pregnancy and shit.”

“Don’t. Please don’t. He’s still my baby brother. I don’t really care that he never told me about dating an old man, but he’s still a baby.”

“He’s an _adult_ , Dean, even Kate treats him as one.” Henry rolls his eyes. “Will you please stop it with your… brother complex? You… you seem like you’re overcompensating.

Cas clears his throat then, reminding both Alphas of his existence and at the same time cutting off Dean’s retort, but Dean scowls at Henry anyway.

“Did you…” Cas hesitates, eyes flicking to Dean for a second. “Did you—”

“No,” Henry says, laughing. “Oh, god no. You should’ve seen Dean the last time I did. And, you know, Seraph isn’t that keen on their Fledglings being gender queer.”

Dean blinks— _what_? “Wait, you thought Henry and I—”

“It was a safe assumption!” Cas interrupts, his face flushing a different shade of pink from when he was crying. “He knew you, you knew him—I just thought—”

“Cas,” Dean interjects, the arm he has around Cas’s waist snaking up his back so he can clamp his hand around the Omega’s neck, “we were in the same batch of Fledglings. We found comfort in each and one another back when we said yes to training under Alistair. Of _course_ we’d be intimate— _emotionally_. But—wait, what the fuck? Not the way _we_ are and Henry and Kate are. God damn it all, this emo shit is fucking difficult.”

“You’re doing quite well, if you ask me,” Henry answers, smiling. Only, this time, his amusement is legit—he isn’t derisive or deprecating. He’s just… it’s like he’s back to plain ol’ Jimmy again.

“Can we continue now?” Dean mutters, glaring at Jimmy for a second before dropping another kiss to Cas’s mouth—this time to let him know his Alpha isn’t mad. ( _Wow, being a mated fucking Alpha is weird_ ) “Adam went missing, reported two and a half months ago. Our first target was a director at EZ Tech, Zachariah Adler. Got from him a name—Jackson De Ville. I need your help in that department.”

Henry raises his eyebrow, his gaze questioning as he looks at Dean. “ _Was_?” he asks. “So you were the real cause of death, not heart attack plus fire. Huh. How’d you manage that?”

“The Rack,” Dean growls. “Will you help us or not?”

The older Alpha watches Dean, studies him for a quiet few minutes. He turns his eyes out the window to their side—watching the darkness of—it’s almost midnight.

“I’ll help you,” he answers finally. “I _was_ the reason you got this assignment. But I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting Seraph to send you in with a Handler.”

Dean squints at Henry suspiciously. “What do you mean, you’re the reason I got this assignment?”

He smirks, looking—and probably feeling, too—triumphant. “I edited the police reports, and then sent an anonymous tip to Seraph. I made sure Adam’s disappearance seemed high-profile enough that they’d send their best to get him back. Yes, Dean, I knew they were going to send you. Next question?”

Dean is… he’s impressed. He knows, of course, that Henry is good at manipulating anything and everything to make sure things work his way, but he wasn’t expecting _this_. To have _Seraph_ manipulated enough to send the person he was expecting? That’s even more than Dean had thought the older Alpha could do.

“You know what?” he says, to break the tension. “I _approve_ of you courting my brother. That is one sick move.”

Henry’s answering smile is almost blinding.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So what’s the plan?” Castiel breathes, swallowing loudly around the lump that has formed at the base of his throat.

They’re back at the house.

They’re in the office, coffee mugs forgotten on the desk, Henry reading countless reports while Dean and Cas brief him on the shorter details about the past month.

Dean skims over the details of the morning at the shack—but he _does_ tell them about the shack, and all it takes for Henry to get it is a _look_.

“So… to set things straight,” he begins, “you’re done with one part of your mission. All you need now—and hopefully—is a guy called Jackson de Ville who your last vic said was a suspected spy and boom! We save my Theta?”

Dean smiles faintly. “Yeah. If things go as black and white as that, then that’s the ideal image I’d like to paint.”

Henry looks thoughtful, chin cradled in his palm as he stares somewhere over Dean’s shoulder. Cas is quietly staring at his brother, like he still can’t believe he’s alive, and Dean feels a little—okay, a _lot_ —sympathetic. He can’t imagine how it might have been, if it was him and Sam—separated during childhood, only to find out years later that they’ve been under the same roof for a short time—too short for anything more than a reunion, but long enough for it to have _become_ a reunion.

He feels sick, and tired, because the people of Seraph were sick fuckers and he can’t find it in himself to feel for those people even a little. They must have known—Dean is sure that they _knew_. But what did they do? They had Cas adopted by another person instead of letting his older brother in on the secret that his brother was still _alive_.

Dean groans, rubbing his eyes a little as he shifts in his seat. He reaches over to the table and grabs his mug of coffee, downing the last dregs of it in a single swig to try and fight mental and emotional exhaustion. Somehow it’s those two that are hardest to beat—no matter how fucking physically wired you are, it’s so hard to get anything done when your mind and spirit are tired.

“You okay?” Cas asks, leaning closer to Dean. The Alpha shifts, spreading his arms a little until Cas gets the hint and falls forward, straight into Dean’s chest. He snuggles closer, resting his nose against Dean’s throat, relaxing even further when the Alpha encircles him in his arms.

“I’m tired,” Dean admits, because, _what the fuck_. They’re almost there. Might as well do the one thing that will keep him from being miserable. “I just want this fucking thing to be over with.”

“It will be,” the Omega assures, pressing a kiss onto the warm skin of the Alpha’s neck. “You’ll save Adam, and this will all be over with.”

Dean smiles, but it’s faint, and he shifts, pulling Cas closer until the Omega is basically on his lap so he can look at Henry. The other Alpha is looking at him with a raised eyebrow, and Dean rolls his eyes, but grins none—the—less. He feels a little better, having his mate in his arms, his scent wafting around and calming his senses.

Dean presses a quick kiss on Cas’s temple when Henry looks away, before pushing the Omega by the shoulders to sit on the chair he’d occupied before Dean pulled him closer. Cas looks up at him, wide eyed and confused, before Dean stands up and stretches with his arms over his head. He doesn’t miss the look Cas sends towards his waist.

“I’mma go to bed,” he mutters, pressing a quick kiss on top of Cas’s head, tuft of black hair ticking his nose. “’n I’m sure you two’d want space.”

Cas reaches up, clinging onto Dean’s neck for a second before letting go, giving Dean a tired but still beautiful smile. “G’night, Alpha,” he whispers, kissing Dean on the mouth.

Dean’s lips quirk up, but that’s all the energy he can muster before he sighs and leaves the room, leaving Cas and Henry and their unknown history.

 

**..--..**

 

Castiel doesn’t know how he feels as he watches Dean’s back disappear into the dark hallway. He knows he should be relieved, that he’s being mated to an Alpha who allows these little things to happen, but at the same time he also thinks it’s okay that he feels like a sulky teenager that his Alpha has just left him in the presence of another Alpha, family or not.

He lets out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain effort to stave off an impending headache, catching Henry’s eyes when he opens his own.

Henry raises his eyebrow, very much like the older brother Castiel almost can’t remember anymore, and then rolls his eyes when the younger of the both of them sends him a glare.

“What,” Castiel growls, frustrated and angry and confused. _Seriously, what the hell? You’d think I have the right to feel this way, but obviously not_.

Henry gives him a fond smile that makes his heart ache—it’s a smile that he should have been allowed to get used to, a smile he should have enjoyed all these years; it’s the smile that was taken away from him when he was too weak to be able to actually do _anything_ about it.

“Henry,” he says, cringing internally at the pleading tone that slips into his voice, “I don’t know what’s supposed to happen, what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“I know, Castiel,” Henry answers, his voice soothing. He stands up, hesitates for a moment, before seeming to shrug and walking over to where Castiel is sitting. He gathers the Omega into his arms, pressing Castiel’s cheek against his belly.

Castiel wants to sob as he is engulfed by the warm glow of familiarity. Being held like he is now—it’s the only thing that seems to be grounding him. He holds on, fingers clutching violently onto the fabric of his older brother’s jacket, breathing in the comforting scent of _family_ and _home_.

It’s family and home and safety and love in all the ways Dean isn’t—and it makes Castiel ache that Dean isn’t here. Even if they both give him the feelings he’s always known he needed but never acknowledged, with one without the other it’s—it’s just the same. It makes a part of his heart, a part of his very _soul_ , crave for completion.

And it’s unfair, because he knows that once he births he’ll never want this from Henry—Jimmy—ever again.

The thought causes him to crush his face ungracefully against his brother’s stomach. His life with Gabe had been good—they got along well enough, knew each other better than anyone else; but his life with Jimmy had been something even _better_. He was born in a home filled with the scents of his mother and father and older brothers, and then he was adopted into a home while engulfed in the scent of his brother.

He pulls away, giving Henry a watery smile when he takes one step back.

“So what’s the plan?” Castiel breathes, swallowing loudly around the lump that has formed at the base of his throat.

Henry sends him a glance before shrugging. “We sleep, as of now, for the most part. I’ll see if anything comes to me in the morning.”

Castiel stands and nods, itching to be in the presence of his mate once more, and walks out of the room.

“Castiel,” Henry calls, before he can reach the door to the kitchen. He looks over his shoulder at the silhouette of another man leaning against the doorjamb, illuminated by the lone lamp they’ve turned on inside the study. “You haven’t had enough time to know Dean, of that I’m sure,” he continues, after staring at Castiel. “And he could be a piece of work. He feels like guilty, right now, and he probably never will stop, because he thinks he’s forced this mating onto you.

“But there’s just one thing I want to tell you about Dean Winchester: it’s that when he loves, he gives his whole heart.

“It’s going to suffocate you, smother you, hook you. I’m not telling you to not let him, I’m just giving you fair warning. Dean’s falling for you, Cas, I can see it when he looks at you. Just be prepared to find you’re holding him together as much as you’re holding onto him.

“He’s going to fall apart one of these days, and it’s going to be on you, whether you like it or not. Good night, little brother.”

 

He doesn’t know how long he remains standing there, frozen on the spot. Henry has already passed him to sleep on the living room couch, and he’d been surrounded by complete darkness for what he’s sure to have been a few hours by now, but he can’t help but just… forget and lose himself for a while.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with the information he’d just been given. He knows, of course, he’s had his suspicions, that Dean isn’t as put together as he makes himself out to be, but he never expected things to be this… this _bad_.

He decides to walk to the bedroom on mechanical limbs, and he stands there, staring at the Alpha who’s smashed his face onto Castiel’s pillow, and he finds that he doesn’t really particularly care.

He’s afraid, on a superficial level, but deep inside he is surprised to find that he’d realized, far earlier into their relationship, that this is how his Alpha is going to end up anyway. He’s lucky that it’s Dean Winchester, actually—the most coveted Alpha in the whole of Seraph, despite the red in his ledger and the blood on his shoulders.

He crawls into bed and sidles up between Dean and his pillow, chuckling softly at the annoyed grunt Dean lets out before adjusting his arms so he’s hugging the Omega and not the piece of fabric that has his scent. Castiel presses a quick kiss onto Dean’s forehead before closing his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him.

It surprises him how quickly Dean’s breathing and warmth lulls him into oblivion.

 

He stirs awake what feels like only seconds later.

Castiel smiles, relishing in the scent of his Alpha, burrowing deeper into the pillow beside his head. He reaches out, his palm skimming smoothly against the sheets, only to find them cool and empty. He sits up, panicked, looking around himself in search of Dean.

“Dean?” he calls, wary, as he stands from the bed and leaves the room, going downstairs. He almost laughs at himself when he sags in relief as he hears the telling sounds of life in the kitchen. He leans his back against the wall closest to him, the back of his head hitting the wood with a faint thump.

It’s strange, feeling like this—feeling vulnerable and needy and scared. It goes against everything he’s ever prided himself on, everything he’s worked so hard to _be_ , all of it because of one green eyed, freckle cheeked Alpha.

He sighs, rubbing his palm against his face, drops his hand. It’s unfair to pin all of this on Dean—he wasn’t the one to _start_ the whole courting. Castiel put Dean in a situation where he only had two choices: to follow his instincts or to follow his rational mind. He still doesn’t understand what pushed him to put Dean on gunpoint, exactly, why he so wanted to have Dean vulnerable and on his knees while Castiel held the power to take his life or give it to him. He feels sick to his stomach, just like every other time the thought pops into his head, and he wants nothing more but to wrap himself in the scent of his Alpha, to assure him that Dean is indeed alive and Castiel hadn’t been successful in taking his life.

Castiel straightens up and heads towards the kitchen.

He hears the voices before he sees the two men—and he smiles at the childish banter that they’re throwing at each other. Henry is at the table, when he walks in, coffee mug in his hand as he grins almost manically at Dean, who is standing by the stove, flipping what looks and smells to be pancakes.

“’Morning,” Castiel greets, his voice rough and scratchy. He hopes they think that it’s from sleep, and he watches them both warily but neither of them turns to him with suspicious glances.

Dean shifts his weight just a bit, spreading his arm towards Castiel, who steps towards him willingly.

“’Morning, babe,” Dean whispers, giving him a kiss on the temple. “Sorry you had to wake up alone—I had to prepare breakfast.”

Castiel chuckles, pressing a light kiss onto the skin of Dean’s throat before he steps away from the Alpha and towards the now more interesting appliance that is the coffee maker. “It’s okay. At least we know who stays at home to cook now.”

He says it lightly, and he surprisingly feels _light_ about it, but he feels the momentary lapse into tension that all three of them experience.

Yeah, mating _is_ going to happen.

Now even he can’t deny it from himself.

He braces himself for the certain emotional backlash he’ll get for the thought, and he almost trips when it doesn’t come. He feels calm, fine, alright.

He closes his eyes, takes his cup of coffee to the table. The look Henry sends him tells just how much of it he just isn’t able to hide, and he grimaces.

“Fuck off,” he mutters, ignoring the part of him that screams _not okay! Alpha alert!_ And sipping at his coffee silently. Castiel doesn’t acknowledge when Dean sets a plate of pancakes in front of him, dropping off syrup and chocolates and another plate of bacon and eggs. Instead he eyes the piece of paper lying almost solemnly in the middle of the table, seeing the lines written in ink crisscrossing each other and frowns in frustration. “So have you two actually formulated a plan?”

He senses Dean freeze, look and frown at him, but he doesn’t look up from the mound of pancakes he’s currently trying to drown in chocolate syrup. “Yeah,” the Alpha answers evenly after a moment, nodding his head even when Castiel doesn’t look at him. “Worked it out a few minutes ago. Eat up and we’ll talk about it some more.”

The rest of breakfast is an event held with tense shoulders and terse words, and Castiel feels guilty for shoving this unto his mate and his brother when they haven’t actually don’t him any _wrong_. After eating they move to the living room, Dean falling into the sofa and spreading his legs languidly, Henry lying on his back on the couch, head close to Dean’s leg.

Castiel gives in to the territorial and possessive urges in his mind and sits on Dean’s lap, back against the armrest, one foot tucked against the one across from him and the other falling off the couch, his knee pressing lightly against Henry’s hair.

Dean tenses for a moment, and then wraps an arm around Castiel’s back, to which the Omega keens and smiles at him brightly for.

“The plan?” Henry prompts, and Castiel could _hear_ the eye roll he doesn’t see. “I’ve already had dealings with EZ, and it would be suspicious if I went ahead and did again to ask for Jackson de Ville. So the plan’s to have Dean be the one to go, ask for an audience—maybe tell them Jack’s an old cousin of sorts—and talk to the guy.

“And don’t even think about asking, Cas. You and I look far too much alike. You’re both on the mayor’s son’s blacklist after that stint of almost getting raped—” they both flinch at that and wow, that asshole is the mayor’s son? No wonder he was such a self-righteous prick!—“so it would be better if Dean did the dealing with Jack.”

They’re all silent for a moment, Castiel enjoying the hot puffs of Dean’s breath on his neck before he shifts. “After that?”

Henry sends a quick glance to Dean—quick enough that, had Castiel not been trained to look for those movements in the people he talks to, he would have missed it—and clears his throat, bracing himself up on his forearm to look at Castiel. “Well, we’re hoping Jack de Ville would be cooperative and not a big pain in the ass, you know.”

The Omega feels cold all of a sudden, finally getting why Henry had sent Dean a look— _so we won’t have to utilize our friend, here_. The words are silent, but their eyes are not—and Castiel finds himself thankful that Henry doesn’t say them out loud. So instead of acknowledging anything—he’s getting good at that—he nods. “When is it happening?”

“Tonight.” It’s Dean who answers his question this time, voice a grumble in his chest under Castiel’s shoulder. “I’ll have to drive out at eight, tell them about a death in the family. When we get Jack out, hopefully things get to be as smooth as we’ve planned.”

Castiel nods in answer and understanding, kisses Dean’s forehead. “What’s the plan for the rest of the day?”

Dean shrugs. “A Star Trek marathon, for the most part.”

Castiel grins.

He’s on for that.

And that’s how he found himself in front of the television, frowning at the images on screen. Both Dean and Henry answer his questions enthusiastically—perhaps a little _too_ enthusiastic—throughout the marathon, and he rolls his eyes at the both of them several times through the movies.

“You must have watched these a million times now,” Castiel says at one point, pouting when he’s sent to the kitchen to refill their bowl of popcorn and to bring out another tray of beers. “ _I’m_ the one who should be sitting here, watching!”

“But you’re not actually watching the movie,” Henry counters, smirking at Castiel when he glares at the older Alpha. “You’re watching _Dean_. _Go_.”

“Dean,” he whines, dragging out the vowels, and pouts even more when Dean just shoos him out of the couch.

“Remember to heat the caramel before adding it to the popcorn” is all the Alpha says before Castiel is standing up and stomping to the kitchen, muttering under his breath about how Dean and Henry are both children in adults’ bodies.

But he can’t help the surges of affection for the both of them, either, as he brings out their block of caramel, cuts a part, and heats it in the pan Dean used on the first bowl. He brings out two bags of popcorn—making sure that one is plain—and pops them into the microwave, letting his mind be lulled into a haze by the voices of the crew of _Enterprise_.

He snaps back to the present when he hears the alarm for the microwave, bringing the bags of popcorn out and popping them both, emptying their contents into two different bowls. The caramel is melted now, too, and he dumps it into the white contents of one bowl and mixing with the ladle, finding himself pleased when the snack doesn’t stick to the wood.

After a few more seconds he takes both bowls, still warm, to the living room and settles himself between the two Alphas again, handing one bowl to Dean and the other to Henry before burying each of his hands into each bowl.

“Seriously?” Dean asks just as Henry goes, “ _Really_ , Castiel?” but he just smiles in answer and looks forward, allowing himself to enjoy the peace of watching a movie and camaraderie of lovely company.

They watch two or three other movies after that—Henry smirking when he brings out a colorful, familiar CD case, and Dean groans, pointing a finger at Castiel. “Cas is, apparently, a sucker for cute things.”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “So you admit that it’s _cute_?”

“Have you fucking watched it, man?”

“Do you know your brother, Dean? How much he loves these things?”

Dean snorts, elbows Castiel’s ribs as he squints, trying to make out the title of the CD Henry is still waving around. “Yeah, I’m sure he ‘n Cas are gonna be such _good_ friends.”

Henry shrugs, turns and puts the CD into the player. Dean groans again, but falls relaxes anyway, and Castiel lets out a strange noise from the back of his throat when he recognizes the first ever scene.

“You’re judging me for _this_?” he demands, glaring at Henry as he walks back towards the couch and turning his eyes to Dean once the other Alpha is seated. “ _No one_ should be judged for loving adorable creatures!”

Dean cringes. “Yeah Cas, I know, but,” he continues, not letting Castiel retort, “ _really_? You’re—you’re crazy over a freaking _dragon_!”

“Toothless is an _adorable dragon_!”

“ _Really_?” Henry interrupts, and both Castiel and Dean look at him guiltily. “Can we just watch, please? Dean, you had your share of sci-fi earlier, let Cas get his feel of adorable squishies. No one,” he continues, eyes darkening as he regards both Castiel and Dean, “brings out the fact that I just said ‘squishie’.”

The younger Alpha and Omega nod, turning to look at the television and the 3D characters. Castiel feels a smile tugging at his lip, and he lets it happen as he leans back against Dean, who wraps an arm around his waist almost instinctively.

 

**..--..**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back :)
> 
> Yeah, this took too long. It was far too long in the making, too, but anyway, here it is! (I don't think it shaped up to be as well as I planned it but. We can't have everything, I guess.)
> 
> Just about a chapter or two to go, and we're done with this part!! :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole thing makes him look like an innocent, harmless, fragile doll—when deep inside Dean knows. Knows that that isn’t true, that Cas is one of the most lethal assets Seraph has ever had, that partnered with Dean their foes barely have any chance of survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey, look, it's the second to the last chapter!! :D This 'verse has been good. You guys have been awesome. Thank you, thank you SOOO much. I love you guys. Please, please, don't be afraid to tell me about how bad my writing is. xD
> 
> This part is almost over, yes I know, just one last chapter to go. I'm sad to see it go, too. I'll put the last chapter up on Saturday--and by then I've probably written the next part already--and then, and then Spirals is done! It's over!
> 
> Yup, that's three months of writing for me. Hahahaha. (That doesn't count the two years spent making this whole universe up)
> 
> But I'm not gonna hold it up any longer. Please, thanks again.

Six PM seems to come far faster than Dean was expecting.

All he knows is that he’s on the couch, sharing good natured jibes with his mate and who used to be his best friend, and then he’s in the shower, preparing for the drive towards EZ Technologies Headquarters. They’re read up on Jackson de Ville of course, knows where he’s working and what his schedule is, knows who to look for and who _not_ when you’re a relative and you’re coming to inform someone that someone in the family just died.

Dean dresses in casual clothes, something he knows won’t raise too many eyebrows in a high-end establishment but wouldn’t confuse him for someone who’s come too prepared for something he’s about to say. And then he’s in the car, leaving to hopefully, finally save his youngest brother.

 

He gets there just as two security guards are exchanging post.

They both look at him, eyebrows raised, and Dean knows what he looks like—rabid, fiery, tired, and messed-up. “Is this—” he begins, clears his throat and tries again. “Is this EZ Tech?”

One of the security guards—an obese man with a bald spot on the top of his head—snorts and gestures at his coworker, turning on his heel to enter the building through a pair of high security glass doors. Dean wants to smirk, because he knows how glass security works, and right now Cas and Henry should have disabled the thing. He looks at the remaining guard then, who’s staring at him like he’s a madman and Dean doesn’t blame him.

“No—please,” Dean says again, cringing as he forces a pleading tone into his voice, “you have to understand I’m—I’ve been sent. As a messenger, because Jack hasn’t showed his face and his mom is—his mom is worried.”

The guard—Edward, his ID says—frowns at him still, gesturing him forward. “I suppose you’re talking about Mr. de Ville?” he asks, giving Dean a quick frisk to the waist and the small of his back but not his thigh or the inside of his calf, where he’s hidden his weapons. “He must still be inside but I don’t believe he’s alerted security about a visit from… a messenger from his mother.”

He says the last phrase like a curse, a suspicious one, and Dean laughs hollowly. “No, he wouldn’t,” he mutters. “He wouldn’t know, it happened so fast it—his brother’s dead.”

That stuns the guard and he is easily shepherded inside, directed towards a front desk where a woman smiles at him sympathetically while she types something on a keyboard. “We’re sorry for your loss, sir,” she says, and she sounds sincere—far too sincere.

Dean smiles at her placidly, suddenly angry. Is this how every employee in this establishment lives?

The phone on the desk rings, and the lady answers, gives a few short words, and asks Dean if he wants to go upstairs. Dean holds back the triumphant smile he knows is going to grace his face in a few moments. He shakes his head.

“I—I’d prefer if we met outside, please. I could use some air,” he answers, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Please,” he finishes as an afterthought.

The lady smiles, nods and repeats his request on the phone, after which she puts it back on the cradle. “Mr. de Ville will be down shortly.”

“Thanks,” Dean mutters. “I’ll just be—I’ll be outside.”

And then he’s walking out, sending the text that will give Cas and Henry the green light. He stays a little ways away from the guard, where he’s sure it was a blind spot, and leans against the wall leisurely, playing with his cell phone. It beeps, once, and he reads the message and finally lets his smile show.

_Green –C_

_Good_ , he thinks, and finally feels a little good about this mission. About, well, _this_ part of the mission.

They finalized the plan a few minutes before Dean left the couch to take a shower, deciding that if they get Jack tonight then it would only be logical to advance into the rescue and conclude the mission tonight, too. It’s almost been two months, and Dean would rather they be somewhere safe when Cas gets his Heat than here (though he’s pretty sure the Omega’s Heat isn’t coming until another month or two).

Dean slides his phone back into his pocket, looking up to the clear evening sky, breathing in the cold, crisp smell of the coming winter. He shakes his head a little, and smirks when he hears a patter of footsteps on concrete and a distressed “Hey!”

He looks up, responding to the call for his attention, sure that he still has that poor puppy look on his face as he meets Jackson de Ville. He almost makes a double take, seeing as Jack is a very, _very_ attractive Alpha, and half of Dean preens at the attention while his other half growls in territoriality.

“You’re—you’re the one Darla sent?” he asks, stopping right in front of Dean and running his hand through his hair, copper colored in the dim light coming from the building. “I—I thought Jayce was doing okay—he _seemed_ okay when I called last week!”

Dean smiles warily, scenting the man. He smells alright, like vanilla and musk, but he isn’t as appealing as Cas. “Yeah, I know,” Dean answers softly, reaching out cautiously but confidently, his hand shaking. He puts it on the other Alpha’s shoulder, steering him to the side. “Come on, are you off work? I can—let’s get to my hotel, yeah? I wanna get back soon as possible.”

“What? No, no, you’re going to stay with me,” Jack says, blinking back tears—Dean is sure, he can scent the grief and regret in the air—as he pulls back. “I—yeah, I’m off work. You should rest, really—you look tired, uh…?”

Dean smiles. “Ross. Ross Jacobs, nice to meet you, Jack,” Dean answers, nodding. “I—I uh, I think I could drive, just a bit, and then we can just, I don’t know, switch, yeah?”

“Yeah, we’ll switch.” Jack squints, but he shrugs and goes with Dean, following him to the side of the building where the visitor parking lot is. The cameras there are disabled, too, and Dean smiles as he surreptitiously reaches for the syringe of incapacitators in his back pocket, much like he did when it was Zach Adler. “What—what happened?”

Jack isn’t looking at him, instead looking up at the sky, and Dean takes the syringe out and replaces his arm around the other Alpha’s shoulder, this time the syringe pressing against his palm. He moves his hand just so, so the syringe and his wrist are pushing against the skin of Jack’s neck. “Collapsed lung,” Dean mutters, and he flexes his wrist—just enough that Jack doesn’t even have the time to turn and look before he’s collapsing into Dean’s arms.

He drags the man towards a nondescript black van at the edge of the parking lot, at the outermost lane where it can pull out and enter a public gas station and no one would look at them twice. He pulls the dead weight of Jackson de Ville inside, giving Cas—who’s glaring daggers at the Alpha Dean is still inadvertently hugging—a quick kiss, giving Henry a nod.

And now to the exciting part.

 

They don’t get too far from the building. About twenty minutes away, Henry pulls into a shoulder and climbs overt the front seats, sitting down on the foot well in front of Cas. Dean suppresses a growl as he ties up their new ‘friend’, and then brings out the capacitator from his other pocket and plunges it into the man.

Jackson de Ville wakes with a gasp.

He looks at Dean, his eyes confused for a moment before his face twists in realization. And then he looks over his shoulder, at where Henry and Cas are huddled close together against the other door of the car.

“Hey, Jack,” Dean greets, giving a shit eating grin and a half assed wave, smirking as Jack struggled with his bonds. “That won’t do you any good, brother, sorry to tell you that.”

Jack takes a deep breath, and then he deflates. “Tell me just one thing,” he says, almost pleading. Dean knows what he’s going to ask even before he does. “Is my brother really dead?”

Dean shrugs. “Still kicking in the hospital, far as we’ve heard. Now, enough questions from you. It’s our turn.”

The Alpha shakes his head. “Whatever you want, I don’t have it. I’m not even from up top in that place.”

Dean smirks again, this time knocking on the Alpha’s head with his knuckles. “We’re not after EZ Tech, chuckles. But we will be if you answer our questions correctly.” He looks up, meets Cas’s eye—nods. And then Cas is scrambling towards him, handing over a hunting knife.

He should probably give Henry his back.

Dean plays with the knife for a bit, sending it spiraling into the air and down, catching the handle between two fingers, watching as Jack gets worked up little bit by little bit until he’s squirming. “What do you want, then?” he explodes, eyes wide on the knife as it impales itself on the upholstery by his thigh.

“You must have your own little theories by now,” Dean says in lieu of an answer. “Mind if we hear them?”

Jack swallows loudly. “You’re psychopaths, that’s one, after some big money—which, I repeat you’re _wrong_ to have taken me for. You’re psychopaths, again, drugging a guy against his will and—” he stops, brows furrowing in confusion. “Did you—did you use _incapacitators_? What are you, some sick, twisted Collectors or something? Are you people going after full-grown unmated Alphas now? Or are you—”

He cuts himself off, eyes widening comically as he stares at Dean and Dean grins. “Ding, ding, ding!” he crows, patting Jack’s cheek affectionately—which Cas growls at—and laughing. “You’ve figured that out—congratulations! _Now_ do you know what we’re after?”

“Who—who sent you?” Jack chokes back, an Alpha’s fear now permeating the air and making Dean want to retch. He looks over as Henry and Cas seem to have a scuffle, but it’s just Cas, looking torn and angry, glaring daggers into the back of Jack’s head.

“That doesn’t answer my question, Jack. _Do you know what we’re after_?”

“I—yes, I do. But _who_ sent you?”

Dean sighs. “Is it important?”

“Yes, yes it is—you aren’t _allowed_ to go against another company on a mission, you’re starting a _war_! This—Crowley is _our_ beef, you moron, has been since he went up into the radar!”

The name piques his interest and makes his curiosity spike. He gazes at Jack, unperturbed as he leans a little closer until their noses are almost touching. Cas growls, _again_ , his jealousy fighting the fear that’s locked up in the car’s atmosphere. The scent is enough to make someone choke, but they’re all holding up.

“Who says anything about anyone named Crowley?” Dean asks, tilting his head in a Cas-esque fashion. “But who _is_ Crowley?”

He’s heard it in the control room, several times over the years, but it’s never come up in anything major, because this guys is right—all the companies like Seraph have signed a peace treaty after the Second World War—yeah, that was their fault, territoriality and misunderstandings are a _bitch_ to go about politically and diplomatically—that they’ve lived by through all these years, and to go against it would be stupid and suicidal.

Jack tenses, and Dean looks up in surprise to find Cas right _there_ , behind Jack, glaring at Dean. He raises an eyebrow at his Omega but ignores him.

The Alpha in between them closes his eyes, shudders, and then finally lets out a faint breath. “He’s some head honcho over at EZ Tech, and you probably know what that fucking façade is trying to hide, and, well, he’s—he’s slipping up, has been ever since Adler died.

“He’s trying to get the police to investigate further, saying it couldn’t have been a natural fire, and he’s trying to pay one of our own—another… another code white company—” he grimaces at the term, and so does Dean, but what else could they call it that generalizes what they are? “—to see if it has anything to do with who he knows is up his ass, but guys said no.

“He’s—he’s twitchy, and just one more slip-up and we’ve got him by the scruff. I think—I think there’s something much bigger, you know? Much, much bigger than we are, than all of us happening behind the scenes. It’s—I’ve heard it several times, over and over in that company during surveillance.”

Jack seems to flinch when he meets Dean’s eyes. He takes a deep breath, utters the same two words Zach Adler did. “Project Bloodlines. It’s—we thought it was nothing, just a plan, a blueprint, but I think it’s something _bigger_ than that, you know? And everyone’s going crazy over it, especially after. After those kids they—”

“Stop,” Dean growls. “That’s enough. Tell me how to get Adam Milligan and get outta my face.”

Jack freezes all over, looks over at Dean and swallows. “Head building, right in the middle of the compound. Sixteenth floor, red door, key’s on the guard situated right at the elevator doors of floor eleven. Weakest security is at nine in the evening, when everyone is switching posts.”

Dean scrambles out of the car as fast as he can, breathing hard as he pinches the bridge of his nose. He allows the fresh, open air greedily, cleansing his lungs and body of the tension and anger he’d inexplicably suddenly felt. And then Cas is right there again, hand on his back.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks, voice soft but firm as he turns Dean to look at him.

“We gotta find out what that’s all about,” he mutters. “Project Bloodlines or whatever. We’ve gotta find out what it’s all about.”

“Alright, we’ll find out, Alpha. Come on, let’s go back. We have to go get ready to rescue Adam, alright? We’ll have to go get ready to rescue Adam.”

He stops Cas before he can walk away, dragging him closer and sticking his nose against the Omega’s neck, breathing in his scent greedily and possessively. He doesn’t know what he’s done in the past to be lucky enough to score this fine mate, because he’s sure he hasn’t done anything _good_ , but he takes it anyway, because he’s a selfish piece of shit and no one has to understand if they can’t.

Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, soothing the Alpha, making him feel perfect again. And then Dean is pulling away, but then is pulling right back in, kissing Cas for real—it’s sweet and greedy and hungry and loving and affectionate and gives them both whiplash.

“Wow,” Cas mutters, eyes wide as he grins like a child up at the Alpha. “Come on, Alpha, let’s go.”

And they do.

 

Dean cuffs Jack on a chair as soon as they get back to the house, much to the other Alpha’s displeasure.

“I’m not gonna run,” Jack mutters, once Dean has turned and left the room. Dean hears him, but he doesn’t reply, because really, he doesn’t have to. Henry is in the study, and when Dean checks in on him he finds his old friend eyeing the fabric of his pants and shirt—the same pants and shirt that they’ve been given as members of the Host for these particular things.

He knows that somewhere upstairs Cas is doing the same, preparing his uniform for the rescue that might—may—will—turn into an assault. He sighs, takes his work phone out, and dials Seraph.

“Pellegrino’s office,” a familiar preppy voice answers, and Dean grins despite himself. He doesn’t care that both of his parents’ families have been in Seraph for _generations_ , that both of his parents got out but _they_ were sucked back in. At least _one_ of his cousins is awesome.

“Hey, Gwen,” Dean greets, just as enthusiastically, propping himself up on a kitchen counter. “How are you, cousin dear?”

“You don’t really actually want to know, do you?” Gwen snaps back testily, and Dean sighs. There’s something wrong with the family temperament, that’s for sure. “What do you _actually_ want?”

“We’re going in for the rescue.”

It’s quiet on the other side of the line, and then there’s scuffles and static, like someone struggling to get moving. “ _What_? Tonight?”

“Yeah, Gwen, tonight. Put it up in memo, alright? We’ll be checking into channel six or four, depends on how wide we have to scope.”

“Wait! Dean, wait a second.”

Dean does.

“Alright—okay, alright. You’ll be up to—you’ll be up the lines to Singer and Turner, directly, and indirectly to Harvelle, Novak and Johnson. Which tech terminal do you want me to plug you up into?”

Dean frowns. “Shouldn’t this be something directly tapped into Cohen and Pellegrino?”

Gwen is quiet, and Dean begins to feel like he’s missing something. A _big_ something. “Direct orders from Seraph itself, Dean,” she says quietly. “Cohen and Pellegrino _will_ be tapping in, from the outside. They want someone you trust on the line. I’m—I got Sam off of the tech support list, so, so you have to give me someone to plug you up to.”

Dean is… he’s confused.  A little scared, too, to be honest, because, _really_? He’s been directly ordered for divergence from _Seraph_? It’s not just weird—it’s scary. There’s something going on here, and Dean doesn’t like it—he doesn’t like it one bit. Especially not that Adam is smack right in the middle of it. Sam is fine, he’s got everyone back at HQ taking care of him, but not Adam—Adam is the one who is _not_ going to be sucked into this life, and Dean has promised himself that. But—but Dean knows he’s failed, right this instant. With Seraph border _obsessed_ with getting Adam to safety, Dean doesn’t doubt they’ll make sure Adam is somewhere they can _touch_ for an indefinite amount of time.

Dean sighs, rubs his face. “Plug in Andrea Kormos, get Gilda Forestchild and Dorothy Baum into support. I’ll call into the channel once we’re done preparing, half an hour before launch.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Dean?”

“Yes?”

“Take care of yourself. Bring Adam home, m’kay?”

Dean gives a faint chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, Gwen. Make sure Sam doesn’t find it weird that everyone’s still in, alright? Ask him out, go see a movie. Drag Jo and Benny and _Anna_ if you have to.”

Gwen chuckles, and then gives a breath. “Gabriel Novak—he’s there for his brother.”

“I know.” _I also know who his real brother is. He’ll be in this mission right alongside us._

“Bye, Dean.”

“Bye, kid. See ya soon.”

 

Dean goes up to the bedroom as soon as he hung up, but he freezes on the doorway, watching. Amazed.

Cas  is standing in the middle of the room, facing the wall to Dean’s right, the tight black slacks of his uniform piece open at the fly and barely hanging on his hips. He’s staring down, buttoning up the dark blue vest that separates him as a Handler from Dean, whose Host’s vest is a deep, velvet black. His hair is a mess, obviously just come from a shower—it’s still damp—and his long lashes flutter against the pale skin stretched upon his cheekbones.

The whole thing makes him look like an innocent, harmless, fragile doll—when deep inside Dean knows. Knows that that isn’t true, that Cas is one of the most lethal assets Seraph has ever had, that partnered with Dean their foes barely have any chance of survival.

He takes a deep breath and steps forward, the soft thud of his footfall catching Cas’s attention. The Omega snaps his head forward—so sharply that Dean worries for a second maybe he’s snapped something else there—but he smiles and assures the Alpha quickly. Dean smiles back, pushing the oppressing thoughts of his superiors’ suspicious decisions away from the forefront of his mind. This is barely the time to worry about that—right now they have to worry about getting Adam out, and they have to move as quickly as possible. It’s nearing eight PM.

“Hey, babe,” Dean greets, walking forward and boldly wrapping Cas in his arms around the waist, pulling him to his chest and kissing him well and deep. “Never thought I’d get to say this, but someone looks good in uniform.”

Cas giggles—full on _giggles_ —as he hits Dean playfully on the arm and pulls away. “Sure,” he mutters. “I’m sure you’d look _better_ though.”

The Alpha grins, allowing the glint of playfulness he’s feeling show in his eyes, as he catches his mate once again and nuzzles at his neck. “Of course I do. I’m the big, strong Alpha.”

“Yeah, and I’m scared. Seriously, Dean, get ready. I’d like to eat a bit of _anything_ before we do this.”

Surprised, Dean lets out a bark of laughter and lets the Omega go, swatting at his ass when he sashays away playfully. He sheds his shirt, and then his pants, grabbing an anti-scent deodorant from the dresser. It’s the same thing he’s scented on Cas, and it makes him feel sick that he can’t scent his own mate, but there’s really nothing they can do. It’s a made for Alphas product, and he grimaces when he looks at Cas.

“You used this?” he asks, because _seriously_ , his mate smells like a fucking Beta—or worse (no sexism intended, jeez) a _Theta_. “Cas.”

Cas frowns, and then nods. “There’s nothing else here I can use. Sorry.”

Dean sighs, shrugs, and applies it onto himself.

At least he can reassure the Alpha growling furiously in his head that this has touched his Omega’s body, and that’s something.

That’s something that makes him feel fucking _sick_.

He goes over to the closet, pulling out his uniform and laying it on the bed carefully. He pulls on his pants first, making sure the loops and buckles aren’t all bunched up and meshed together so it would be easy to slip weapons in and even easier to take them out. And then he puts on a white Henley—it makes him feel better—before donning his vest, turning to look at the man matching his outfit almost exactly.

“I knew you’d look hot,” Cas breathes, and that’s all the warning Dean gets before he’s got his arms full of Omega, legs around his waist and mouth hungrily devouring his own. He smirks when Cas pulls back, eyes bright and dopy grin on his face. “Come on, Alpha, let’s get this done.”

They both bring out the last items of their uniform—a pair of coats—and go downstairs, to where Henry is waiting, holding onto pieces of cloth.

Dean raises an eyebrow, catching the piece Henry throws at him in answer.

“Stow the coats,” he says, “this is more comfortable. Not to mention convenient. Those coats are heavy and—they’re trademark Seraph wear. Don these, they’re lighter and can hide more weapons than the fucking coats.”

And then he turns away. Dean puts his on as soon as he sees his mate do so—explicitly trusting his own brother—and they go to the room where Dean had cuffed Jack. He’s standing now, wearing another of the cloths Henry had—did he have a million on hand or something?—and his slacks, almost matching the uniform all three members of Seraph are wearing.

The jacket _is_ far lighter than the coat, and it’s easier to move in, too. There are several pockets and hoops, but they’re all in convenient places, making up for the flimsy material that probably won’t survive a stabbing or a bullet, which sets the coat apart in regards to safety. It’s not like it’s comfortable to wear Kevlar vests every time you had to go out for a fucking mission.

He takes a deep breath, nodding at Henry, and then at Cas, and then jerking his head back.

Dean and Henry had taken the crate of weapons down to the kitchen earlier this morning, making it easier to reach. Jack follows them silently and obediently.

 

The crate is filled with a shit ton of weapons—from the easy to use to the exotic.

Henry seems to glow when Dean unravels a familiar looking sword—it’s familiar, but it’s brand new and probably just had gotten imported when the shipment office from Seraph boxed it. Dean grins, handing Henry’s favorite weapon off to his old friend, who takes it from him reverently and stares at it for a long moment.

“It’s been so long, you don’t understand,” he murmurs, while everyone is staring at him. “I’ve gone to the Philippines and bought me one, but it has been so long since I held one so new, so fresh.”

Cas runs his hand through the smooth, varnished wooden scabbard, cocking his head to one side in that adorable way only he could seem to pull off. “What is it?” he asks, breaking the spell.

Jack blinks and clears his throat. “It’s a—uh—a Philippine double-edged sword. It’s—uh.”

Dean raises his eyebrow at their ‘friend’, who shrugs back at him.

“I know some stuff. I _am_ just like you.”

Dean smirks. “No you aren’t.” And then he bends over, handing out knives and guns and ammo and a first aid kit for Cas to hold on to. And then he’s bringing out a pair of communicators, handing one to Cas and looking expectantly at Henry.

The other Alpha hesitates, resting his hand confidently on the hilt of the sword on his hip. It may look like something straight from a history book, and it may seem a little out of place in the modern world, but it does its job. Henry looks _intimidating_.

“I’m thinking we pair off,” Henry says. “One of each of us—” he gestures between him and Jack “—with one of each of you.” He points at Dean, and then at Cas. “I’m voting to go with Cas, because this is _your_ mission and it would be better if _he_ went with you.”

Dean stares, his hand itching to grab Cas and say ‘no’ to the stupid plan that will separate them, but he keeps his body calm. He looks at Cas, who looks determined as he stares back, and finally nods his assent. He reaches over his neck, where he’s clipped the communicators’ controller onto his collar, and switches up.

The first channel gives him nothing but static and Cas’s breathing—but he can hear his own. Channel one, he knows, is the one where he’d need communication with someone within fifteen feet. It’s helpful when you’re on honor guard duty.

The second channel is a little like the first, except this time he can’t hear his own breathing, and he and Cas move a little ways away from one another to avoid the high pitch scream of sound that will surely come to them.

He ignores the next two settings and finally settles on Channel six, where he hears a faint ringing. He glances at Cas, who’s looking at him, too, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“Campbell, G0314,” comes Gwen’s voice, as preppy as ever.

Dean thinks maybe he should be formal—but then he thinks, fuck it. His immediate superiors won’t care much.

“Gwen, we’re up,” Dean says, his voice echoing in his own ear as well as a light beep.

“Copy,” Gwen answers, and Dean hears a few clicks from a keyboard, and then the sound of something—a machine, maybe—booting up, like a sound vacuum coming up from his ear. “Winchester, D0124; Novak, C0303; on air. G0314 connecting.”

Dean hears a little static, making him flinch, and then he gets the confirmations he needs.

“Case 10914, Winchester, Novak, nicknamed Rescue Line, on air,” Bobby’s gruff voice come up into the line, making Dean grin. “Singer, R0918 confirmed.”

“Turner, R0617, confirmed,” answers Rufus’s deep, _I’m always annoyed with you_ voice.

Gwen picks up again after that. “G0314, indirect Channel to Harvelle, E0629.” Gwen pauses, and Dean waits, his eyes closed.

“Harvelle, E0629 confirmed,” Ellen says, breaking the vacuum of silence that was beginning to grate on Dean’s ear. He smiles in relief—it feels _nice_ to hear family’s voice.

“Novak, G0212,” Gwen continues, and pauses again.

“Novak, G0212, confirmed,” answers a _male_ preppy voice, and Dean turns to Cas, but finds him grinning toothily at the voice of his older brother. _Yeah. Okay_.

Gwen continues to get the others to confirm that they’re online, too, until Dean finally hears Dorothy confirm she’s on before nodding, green lighting Henry and Jack. The four of them move quickly, lithely—back towards the van that Henry drives to the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... I hope you're all excited for the last chapter. See ya guys soon!! (THANK YOU, THANK YOU FOR READING THIS AND STICKING WITH ME FROM THE START, FROM THE AWKWARD STAGES TO THIS ONE. THAAAANKS)
> 
> Again, here's my [ Tumblr, ](http://peur-van-dunkelheit.tumblr.com) if you ever want to say hi. Just... just drop by, alright? Or leave a comment or /something/. Thanks. Byeeeee :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mad fucking men, but Dean has saved his brother—it’s now time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over.
> 
> NOTES BEFORE YOU READ: This has been one crazy ride, guys. But it's finally done, it's over--and it's all thanks to you, who encouraged me, and read this in the first place. So here's to you guys.
> 
> Now I just can't help but wish that the person who pushed me into starting this was still alive to enjoy the conclusion and victory with me. I guess we can't have everything. HAHAHAHAH.
> 
> Anyway, you can read on now. Good luck!!

They get there ten minutes before nine PM, and Dean’s heart is beginning to quicken in excitement.

“We’re on field,” he tells his mike, looking at Cas to make sure he can hear. When Cas nods, he leaves the van. “On foot, to the building. With me, de Ville, Jackson—vic after Adler. Fellow spy.”

Dean waits in bated breath as he moves for the reprimand he’s sure he’s going to get—after all, Bobby _has_ told him, over and over again that _you don’t just trust someone so easy, you idjit_ , but it doesn’t come.

Instead, what he gets is a gruff command to “carry on.”

He grins in relief. There’s no guard outside the door, but there _is_ a camera, on the building where Jack stops him from moving any further. He can see Henry and Cas move to the other side of the building, and they’re just waiting for the next command. Dean brings out a button, something that will disable all electronic devices within a twenty meter radius for ten minutes.

“I’m taking out electronics for ten minutes,” Dean murmurs into his mike as he presses the button and throws it towards the door, waits for the beep before signaling for Jack to follow him. He moves quickly, lithely, towards the door and pushes it open, letting it hang for Cas or Henry—whoever comes in last—to close it behind him.

Setting that button off means taking out _everything_ that runs on computer technology, and that includes the specialized elevator, as Dean finds when he tries to get it open on its own. Annoyed, he uses mad Alpha strength to rip the doors open, glad that the car stopped on the floor below the first.

“Come on,” he hisses to Jack, who jumps in before him and grabs a cable, already climbing up. Dean grabs another cable and climbs up just as quick.

Thinking better of it, he turns to Henry, who’s about to jump in after them.

“Hen,” he says, “take the stairs. Go straight to Adam’s floor and make sure there’s _nothing_ that will kill him that’s up there. Wait for us, fifteen minutes. If we’re not there _longer_ than that time, assume we’re dead, rescue Adam, and get the hell out of dodge.”

Henry’s face says everything Dean doesn’t want to think about. He nods, anyway, and turns to Cas before allowing the door to close. Dean looks up, at Jack, who’s staring at him with wide eyes in the darkness of the elevator shaft. Dean lets loose another of the buttons.

“Go.”

 

**..--..**

 

“No!” Castiel whispers, staring wildly at Henry. “I’m not—Dean is—”

“Not the priority of this mission,” Henry says through gritted teeth. “This is as hard on me as it is on you, Cas, but _we have to go_. Fifteen minutes isn’t a lot of time in a building secured with arms.”

Castiel stares a moment longer before he rips himself away from the door his Alpha just disappeared from, running towards the door he’s sure is the stairwell. He runs up, as fast as he can, making sure to listen for the patter of footsteps behind him, coming upstairs as well.

They run, as quickly as they can, but Castiel can feel that it isn’t quick enough, that soon they’ll find themselves boxed in and almost dead, and he will never see Dean—never see his smile, hear his laughter, feel his warmth.

The different weapons he’s armed himself with weigh him down a little, but he pushes through, the small white box of first aid items bouncing almost uncomfortably on the small of his back but—but all of those are sensations given by his mind. He can’t _actually_ feel anything—there’s too much anxiety, worry, excitement and nervousness running through his mind to concentrate on any one thing.

It’s eight minutes after that he hears a static tone through his communicator, telltale sign that it’s coming back up online.

“—fucking idjit,” he hears, the tail of probably one of Robert Singer’s infamous spiels.

“Bobby, one’s back online,” Miss Campbell snaps, her voice as tight and drawn as Castiel feels.

“Novak, back on,” he says, not even breathless as he twists and goes up another flight of stairs. _What floor are we in now? How do I know how long again until I see Dean_?

“Novak,” Rufus Turner begins, “where are you? Give us a layout of your location, and pinpoint your exact location.”

Castiel takes a deep breath and skids to a stop, almost having Henry careen right into him. They both stop, taking deep, panting breaths, before Castiel clears his throat and answers his and Dean’s superior. “It’s a building right in the middle of EZ Tech Headquarters,” he begins, closing his eyes and envisioning the layout of the land around him.

It comes to him one by one—little things he’s observed on the run from the main building to this one, small details he’s unconsciously locked back up in his mind. He opens that lock now, his mind looking like the beginnings of an AutoCAD design.

“Approximately one-hundred and three meters from the steps of the back exit is the entrance to this building. There are six smaller buildings around it—probably stockrooms or other offices not in the main complex. It has something that looks like a back annex, but we haven’t gone there

“Approximately one-hundred and three meters from the steps of the back exit is the entrance to this building. There are six smaller buildings around it—probably stockrooms or other offices not in the main complex. It has something that looks like a back annex, but we haven’t gone there yet. Dean is—” he stops, takes a deep breath. “Agent Winchester is currently in an elevator shaft, going up to floor eleven.

“Our informant says that the key to the red door on the sixteenth floor, where they are keeping Adam Milligan, is with the guard on the door of the elevator at the eleventh floor. We’re hoping that’s real. I’m in a stairwell, on my way up to secure the sixteenth floor.”

“What are your orders?” Singer asks, his tone all business, no questions.

“Fifteen minutes, and I assume they’re—they’re dead.” His voice catches on the last word, but he takes a deep breath and ploughs on. “I am to get Adam out if it kills me and I will stick to the order, sir.”

Robert is quiet—everyone is. There’s not even the sound of breathing. Castiel takes that as the sign to go ahead and starts running up again, Henry just a step below him. They run up, as fast as they can, Castiel finally stopping when he sees, through the door of the stairwell, the number 16.

He sighs in relief—it’s only been twelve minutes. They have three minutes to wait.

Henry pushes him back, though, before he can step out. He peeks a little through the glass partition, cursing lowly under his breath.

“There are six guards,” he whispers, “all of them facing the main staircase. The elevator’s on the other end of the corridor.”

“Dean and Jack—” Castiel begins, but is interrupted rather quickly by Henry signing.

“They’ll probably use the stairs,” he murmurs. “We have to dispatch at least two of them before Dean and Jack reach the floor—come on.”

He opens the door, thankfully cracking open towards the side of a corner so they can duck towards it quickly without anyone noticing. Once they’re both there, crouched low, backs against the wall, Henry sidles over to the side, peeking over the corner and immediately pulling back.

“Fuck, someone’s coming,” he hisses, straightening up quickly. Castiel feels his heart beating, taking out a knife at the same time Henry does, both of them hearing the telltale thumps of footfalls against the plush carper.

“…seeing things,” the guard is muttering under his breath, and Henry grabs him by the neck just as he reaches their hiding spot, shoving his fist into the man’s mouth before stabbing him in the neck with a small throw knife to muffle the shout that he’s about to let out, and the gurgles that come after as death claims the man.

He wipes blood and drool off his fist on the man’s clothes, signaling Castiel to follow slowly while he walks back, confident, towards the other men. Castiel watches and—and he’s right. They’re all by the mouth of the stairs, none of them even giving the slightest peep towards Henry. Maybe they’ve assumed it’s their comrade, who’s know lying dead and bloody by Castiel’s feet.

He straightens up then, slowly, doing his best to keep the men’s attention away from his movements, and he makes a mad dash towards the other wall—the wall that is facing their backs. He moves beside it quickly and efficiently, and his breath hitches when he sees it—the red door.

It’s on the other side of the stairs, sadly, so he’ll have to move behind the group of five men (plus Henry) to get to it. All five are watching the stairs rabidly, as if waiting for what Castiel knows is his mate and their informant, and he has to swallow a lump in his throat.

One man begins talking, about his own mate and kids, and they all seem to relax as the spiel begins—he turns to Henry and—

Everything goes south _quickly_.

 

**..--..**

 

“Shit—Dean, we gotta get there!” Jack yells, and that’s all Dean hears before a series of guns fire, the sound ricocheting through the beautifully architecture interior. His instincts run rampant then, desperate to have his mate beside him as quick as possible and out of the line of fire.

He runs up the steps, pulling out a gun and shooting, right between the eyes, a man who is stupid enough to try to meet him head on. He feels like that night in the alley all over again—highly alert and super sensitized. He turns, just in time, to shoot another man on the neck before he can stab Jack in the back, and allows the informant to run up first before quickly following.

The scene they arrive to makes Dean want to feel sick.

There’s blood and bodies _everywhere_ —there are probably about nine, or ten, and there’s two more coming out from a door. These are probably all of the guards of the building, if one counts the thirteen or so others Dean and Jack had dispatched on their way up here from the eleventh floor.

Jack was right—nine PM is the weakest hour in the security system. They are all concentrated on only counted floors of the building, half of them moving like zombies as they traded off duties. Dean didn’t kill all of them, of course, only made sure they were out long enough for him to be able to do his job.

“Cas!” he calls, as he shoots down one, two of the guards and turns wildly, gun pointing at Jack and he’s confused for a second, _why am I not killing him_? And he hears it—sobbing, faint, but there. “Cas!”

“Over here,” Jack calls, and he crouches, and Dean goes there, feeling like it’s something ominous, that sob.

And he’s right, again, of course, and he feels like fucking _shit_.

That’s the moment his device comes back up online, but he takes it off and shoves it into his pocket, including the mike as he watches. Henry has been shot, bleeding from his stomach, one hand on the wound and the other on his brother’s face, bloodying his cheek.

Cas is holding onto him almost possessively, tears streaming down his cheeks and mixing with the blood on his brother’s neck.

“Shh, shh,” Henry coos, and Dean feels like he’s trespassing on an intimate moment. “I would have died to see you again, Cas,” he whispers, but his voice is still strong. Dean can hear the faint alarms in the distance, and he’s sure that soon they’ll be faced with far more security than what they’re dealing with right now. “You—” Henry coughs, spits out blood, and Dean moves.

He scrambles up to his feet, shaking and wobbly— _Henry is dying, he really is dying, I brought him into this and now he’s going to be_ dead _and it’s going to be my fault, just like how Meg and Tim and those six poor bastards died because they were_ testing _me but now he’s gonna die_ —and makes his way towards the red door.

He drops the bunch of keys twice before he finally opens the door, successful, and he wants to cover his ears from the sudden screaming that fills his ears but he doesn’t, he just walks in and gathers his little brother into his arms and soothes him.

“Hush, little brother, I’m here now, you’re safe,” he says. “We’re gonna get you outta here, right now, come on.”

They go outside, where Cas is sobbing even harder, and Dean kneels in front of his mate and takes him away from his brother. He helps him stand, then shoves Adam into Cas’s arms.

“Get Adam outta here, Cas,” he orders. “Take the stairwell, make something explode—I don’t _fucking_ care but get my baby brother out of here!”

Cas is shaking his head as he supports Adam’s weight, telling Dean that they can’t leave Jimmy, they can’t, no, no, it’s not fair at all—they can’t leave Jimmy, _please_ Dean let’s not leave Jimmy.

“We won’t,” he breathes, “I won’t. He won’t stay here, Cas, but _please_ for the love of god _get my brother the fuck out of here_!”

He pushes at Cas, one more time, and finally, finally, he moves, dragging Adam towards the stairwell where they probably entered through.

They’re all sobbing and shaking, he realizes, except the man on the floor, who has his eyes closed and his chest not moving. Even Jack is terrified, but Dean is sure that it isn’t because of what’s just happened, but because of something that’s about to happen—to him, most likely, if he gets caught.

“We made a deal,” he breathes, looking at Dean, panicked, as they hear the rushed patter of footsteps coming closer and closer towards them. “Come on, Dean—you promised! You promised—”

He stops, because he’s been shot—right between the eyes, by Dean’s gun, because Dean promised he’d kill him. “I’m sorry,” Dean sobs, as he leans down and grabs Henry—Jimmy—by the waist and hefts him up his shoulder, and starts running. He drops three items—just like the same items he’s left in the elevator shaft, on the fourteenth floor and in that room where they stashed the security guard of the eleventh floor.

His thumb runs through the smooth surface of an item in his pocket—the last item in that pocket, that dangerous, dangerous pocket—and he runs—head on, as fast as he could, towards the north wall. He’s made he’s decision earlier, he’s jumping into the pool. This building is probably infested by security now, and Dean doesn’t pay them that much attention as he lets Jimmy slide down his front.

Dean hugs his old friend against his chest, as tight as physically possible, and jumps—feeling the glass shards that explode around him cut into his arms, neck and face where Jimmy’s jacket doesn’t protect his skin. He remembers too late to press the button—but he does, and he hears a mighty explosion just before he hits the surface of the water, head first, feeling like he’d just his concrete.

He only as a moment to pray that Cas and Adam had made it out alright before he blacks out.

 

Dean doesn’t know how long he’s passed out, but when he wakes up he’s floating, on his back, and he can see flames licking up towards the inky black, velvet night sky—the building that used to be now in shambles, burning down to the ground. He can feel a cold, dead, _familiar_ body floating in the pool next to him, and he thanks Victor Henricksen for his survival lectures that he didn’t curl his knees or shit.

He probably would have broken all his bones had he not remembered the man’s wisdom.

Dean can hear the wails of ambulance and police sirens, so he pulls himself up sluggishly, swimming to the edge, dragging with him Jimmy’s body. He hopes that the body survived the fall as much as he has, and he doesn’t care that Jimmy is gone.

He leaves the water and hefts the body with him, dragging on wobbly body parts towards the other side of the building, where he hopes he can find Cas and Adam waiting for them. It takes him so long, _so_ so long, but he finally arrives.

Cas is there, hugging it out with his baby brother, both of them shaking from whatever the fuck is going on in their minds right now. They turn just as Dean drops to his knees, Jimmy held tight to his body like a fucking psycho, and they both run over.

Cas is the first one there, holding him close and patting his hair and his cheeks and his shoulder and crying into his neck. Dean can see his baby brother kneeling beside Jimmy’s head, his own hung lowly and his shoulders shaking as his body is wracked with sobs.

“Come on,” he says, “we gotta get outta dodge, they’re coming. Police are coming—Adam, let’s go, come on.”

He drags his brother up to his feet, and then leads him to the van, Cas, now the one dragging Jimmy’s body around, following them closely. They get to the van and Dean feels like bursting out and sobbing, but he stops himself and presses another button. They hear a smaller, fainter explosion, and Cas looks at him in question.

“Blew up about three cars in the parking lot,” he whispers, “including ours.”

“How will we get out of here then?” Cas asks faintly, because of course that’s the question.

“We’ll have Gwen pick us up via plane, Cas, let’s just get outta here.”

And they do, they get out of there, without looking back, with Adam safe in the back seat.

Though they probably look like madmen—a bloody, soggy Alpha, eyes rabid and body wild; an Omega on the Spiral, probably dying because his Alpha can’t do fuck about it; a Theta being all emotional and almost hysterical in his cries and sobs; and don’t forget the dead body in the back.

Yeah, madmen.

Mad fucking men, but Dean has saved his brother—it’s now time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW IT'S SHORT.
> 
> PS. This isn't really the end, not really. There are, like, a million more things in this 'verse that I want you guys to see, like: (1) Castiel's history, his childhood. It was referenced here, I think, once or twice, and I want people to see just how really screwed he is. Huehuehue; (2) Adam's life after this whole ordeal, because he technically is the center of attention in this fic, even though I'm sure I didn't write it that way; (3) the Winchesters and how they cope with what had just happened; (4) the scene where Henry died, in Castiel's point of view, because I've written that and it was sad so I took it off, but I want it back in; (5) the Destiel because I didn't give it justice.
> 
> PPS. No, this isn't the last chapter. There's an epilogue coming next week that will probably make you hate me. Huehuehue.
> 
> Again, guys, thanks! For everything, really. Drop me a comment, okay? I'm just fishing for attention now, but I really, really do need it. Please, I need your encouragement :( And you're probably tired of seeing this, but here's my [ Tumblr ](http://peur-van-dunkelheit.tumblr.com) nonetheless; and my [ Ask . fm ](http://ask.fm/cordz03) account, for whatever.
> 
> love, cordz


	16. EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All they want is to see the downfall of this sick, twisted monstrosity of a society and put up their own: one that is better, brighter, lighter, more beautiful than anyone could ever have imagined.

The room is wide—it isn’t really a room as much as it’s a cavern, but no one likes to talk to it like that, because it makes convincing someone to go up there harder. The rumors alone can scare off any newcomer; how much more to get them to enter?

It’s rumored that sometimes, when you go inside that room, you never come out. Some are lucky—they are able to get out with nothing but fear pounding in their hearts and apprehension singing in their veins as they run down the spiral staircase back towards whatever hole they belong to in this forsaken building.

No, no—not forsaken. It’s actually a beautiful building—made of brimstone, towering up, up, up—like a castle. Only no royal family lives here; no royal family of the righteous sort, at least. The royal family that lives here isn’t even a _family_ , they’re a… they’re something an outsider might call a cult.

They aren’t a cult, at least not in their eyes.

They’re scientists, philosophers, researchers; they find answers to questions and wonders that have seized the world for thousands of years. They’re—they’re the good that do good for the bad. They don’t do their research and their philosophy and their science for the good of society, no, they do it for its downfall.

All they want is to see the downfall of _this_ sick, twisted monstrosity of a society and put up their own: one that is better, brighter, lighter, more beautiful than anyone could ever have imagined.

It all began here, in this cavernous room, its first half nothing but a wide expanse of white marble and cold glass with a single mahogany desk in the center—it and the comfortable looking leather chair behind it being the only splash of color in the whole place. Behind that desk, though, looms a far more breathtaking sight.

It’s the sight of technology and advancement, all in one place.

There are people bustling around—they’re always bustling around here—in their gear: white lab gown, hair covered by a white cap, pants white as well, most reaching the floor like a onesie. No one pays much attention to the shaking newbie that enters the large white wood panel that is the door, his eyes too bright to be calm and movements too jerky to not be afraid.

The man behind the desk smiles.

He’s the leader, the founder of this place. He’s the one who funded everything, his genius brought all of _these_ together, and began _that_ project years ago—and they thought they’ve lost them forever, but they’ve found their favorite and most successful project now. They’ve found them, and he’s not willing to let them go any farther from his grasp as they already are.

The young boy comes forward, his movements more darting than moving, hesitant and cautious but also curious as he walks closer towards the desk.

“What is it you want, child?” he asks, his voice grave and dark even in his own ears. He suppresses the urge to grin at the obvious flinch the boy does at his words. “I do not have all day. Speak.”

“Sorry, sir,” the kid begins hastily, and then brings forth a familiar plastic and crystal case, resting it on the wood of his desk before he steps away.

The leader gestures for the child to leave, not really caring that he will probably be drugged and used as specimen for an indefinite amount of time, for his eyes are concentrated solely on the case and disc found within that case.

“It must be a report,” he announces to no one in particular, picking it up, cracking it open and sliding the thing into his laptop’s slot. “I am _so_ excited,” he continues, voice still holding that childish amusement that sets him apart from the rest of them.

The look of him is relaxed, confident in his own skin; the rest of them are apprehensive and a little scared.

“They ought to be afraid of me,” he mutters darkly to himself before he presses enter, and a little dialogue box opens before becoming a full screen image.

He is greeted by the recording trappings of a news report—the news report made by people _outside_ of his jurisdiction, but he knows in whose resources have been exhausted to find enough to actually even _make_ a public decision.

“…car accident earlier this morning, involving a black van colliding against a tree, revving off course into a ditch where it turned over and promptly burst into flames. There was someone inside the fire, but they couldn’t see him anymore when he had been engulfed.

“Four bodies were reported to have been found within the car wreck as it was pulled away from the ditch. The FBI have given no other indication if this is connected to the other reports of missing people, but they have promised full and intense investigation. It shall take top priority and will be solved at all costs.”

He feels his whole mood—the whole room—darken as the disc finishes the video it contains and tapers off to a black screen. He brings his hands up, twining his fingers together and resting it under his chin, scowling towards the door that leads to this fucking place.

 _They were almost there_. All they had to do was make sure their hostage stayed alive long enough for their intended victim to fucking come out and _come to them_ , but instead, what does he get? All of them—his hostage, his business partner, his _target_ —dead, already decaying or burning.

He curses, stands up abruptly and swipes his arms above the surface of his desk in a moment of blinding rage and red-hot fury. All the contents of his desk go flying across the room, and he feel rather than hears the silence that comes from behind him. He wants to look behind him and scowl at them, too, but he knows that they know why he’s in a bad mood.

 _Fucking luck_.

They lucked out the first time, when they lost the kid in the first place. And then they got the _other_ one, but he got away too—then they found the perfect piece of bargain that would draw _them_ out—his biggest fucking enemies, the beings he _despises_ the most in the surface of this world— _and all they had to do was drop the net_.

They still got away from him.

At first they weren’t sure if it really _was_ him, because it seemed too perfect to be true, but all it took is one long look at a security footage on an alley and a well orchestrated murder for them to confirm that he is the genuine thing.

He’s fallen right into their laps—and he’s brought with him one of their favorite pets.

At first, finally, everything was looking up, and they all hoped that this was it, their redemption.

Then, of course, everything went to shit.

He screams, yells and kicks at his table in frustration and anger, but it quickly abates.

If the first one is dead and their favorite little pets are along with him, they can get their last hope. They’re all hoping _he_ doesn’t have to be utilized, that he stay as useless as his crippled ass really is, but they have no other choice now. They’ve gotta use the other one—the _handicapped_ one—because the perfect creature is apparently, as of now, _dead_.

“I’ll get the Winchester boy,” he growls, his nose scrunched up into an expression that would invoke fear upon whoever sets their eyes on him. “I will kill _every single fucking one of those imbeciles_.”

Whatever happens, they must stay true to the reason behind this whole thing in the first place.

The Winchester boy—they wanted the older one, but he’s dead, so they’ll settle for the _other_ one—will bring the end of this world—and it will be them to rule the one that rises above it.

He sits down on his chair, looking contemplative.

 _The Winchester gospels_ , he thinks, and smirks. _This is the beginning of the apocalypse_.

* * *

 

_ End of part one _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all for now, folks.
> 
> PS. This whole fic has not been beta'd yet, and so you'll still be seeing it updated for the next couple of months (probably alongside the second part). There are some scenes I've taken out of this one from the original, but I will be adding those scenes as I go.
> 
> Thank you.


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